Hidden Agenda

    Mariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,
    - a screen peppered to black,
    pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.

    Winged bats, moist velvet foot-pads
    that spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvas
    where Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hills
    find the wind a gypsy bandit
    sage, red flower of the cacti,
    ballad to rakish cloud.

    A ship shamelessly at sea -
    the scorpion cloth of open wounds,
    dark implants, sturdy oak
    constellations, English yew
    spouts tremulous shafts
    across weather-burnt sky.

    A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.
    Piers along deep, inner space.
    Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.
    Accordion of white light.

    Up green ache of mountain
    the muffled sound
    Goya's Colossus,
    the head of the giant
    voyaging thru
    embroidery and stellar, black space;
    tombstone lock on a pulsating world.