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