Scandalous Grace

I love you more than death itself

Its as if

When Breton told Bunuel

That it was impossible

Anymore to scandalise

That Don Luis

Went to bed

And dreamt that he had a child

Who was the image of Lorca

But who was a daughter

Then he woke and smoked

And the ashes fell to earth

And they to me, he imagined, gave birth

And he smiled that crooked smile

That I was the son of the cigarette

Which he had slain, burned and devoured

Which would come back to kill him

Yet he, Don Luis

Would get the last laugh

As its first and only born

Would prick his finger on a thorn

And become madly possessed

By his, Don Luis' daughter own

Then he thought

Of the look on Franco's face

And it gave his morning rising

A scandalous grace

Povey 2016