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.