Hola! Old friend . . .You, whose vision I’ve chased for years . . . As one from the plains who bears witness with his hands & blood in his throat . . . who speaks of the evil that men do & of the caller who knocks at every door . . .
Each day the donkey bears its burden of greed but here in Goya’s ‘night of the soul’
the corrupt haul each other on their backs & hurl their spears & pierce their own plump cocoons &
the dead will carry the dead / here where his monsters gorge on the torsos of kids & his priests walk a tightrope between their lies &
elegant women tease & flirt & are wrenched from their mother’s tit & here a raging stallion tears her flesh &
she’ll wear a mask to hide her scars & the hag will follow & sweep her up on a broom & sail over night &
here she’ll feed on dragon’s blood & dung & prefers a goat to a man & have him mount & . . . & here
the war tears out the country’s throat & mutilates & castrates & ties the bleeding parts to a tree . . . & here
a women who plucks the teeth of the dead & dogs that gnaw the guts in the pit & here the headless corpses rot …
& Francisco de Goya will not be satisfied – here . . . & neither will we turn away . . . escape
the gapping & the gawking mouths . . . the grisly . . . hush.