Monday, April 18, 2011


Spain is the land of flat red earth.
She points herself at you at dinner after a glass of red wine.
She stinks after love but you can only bathe her with questions.
Ask the darkness, the fur of her brow and wrist, her navel delicately inscribed.
A dream from the land where dreams are written in unholy wine.
With such severity has she parted her hair.
She is afraid of her father.

The sadness of music and drinks.
But the happiness inside that sadness too.
Not much is better than tears cried in happiness. 
Even the idea of tears.
Even the memory of tears.
Even just one drink.
But never just the idea of a drink.
Some things are not that happy.