may butterflies rise from yr grave every year..for Garcia Lorca...Rob Plath..poem

Louis le Brocquy - Lorca


may butterflies rise from yr grave every year..


by Rob Plath

a soldier pumped
two bullets
into yr buttocks
for being a queer

then another
into the branches
of yr lung
for being
a poet

another word
for dirty communist
to them

you were their worst enemy
w/unplugged asshole
& wide open singing
lung bags

i imagine yr
assassin bragging
about it afterwards
to his comrades

then later that night
giving his wife a good
hetero fascist fuck

his dick standing like
a middle finger
to commie faggot poets

his torso full of
fearful gears
moving w/precision
over her body

his clenched homophobic
cheeks thrusting
like a pair of iron fists
bloodless knuckles

giving it to her once
for himself
& once for the gang

the regime

Federico García Lorca...drawing and poem...

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint


Never let me lose the marvel

of your statue-like eyes, or the accent

the solitary rose of your breath

places on my cheek at night.


I am afraid of being, on this shore,

a branchless trunk, and what I most regret

is having no flower, pulp, or clay

for the worm of my despair.


If you are my hidden treasure,

if you are my cross, my dampened pain,

if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,and adorn the branches of your river

with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

Federico García Lorca...drawing and poem...

Song of the Barren Orange Tree

Woodcutter.

Cut my shadow from me.

Free me from the torment

of seeing myself without fruit.

Why was I born among mirrors?

The day walks in circles around me,

and the night copies me

in all its stars.

I want to live without seeing myself.

And I will dream that ants

and thistleburrs are my

leaves and my birds.

Woodcutter.

Cut my shadow from me.

Free me from the torment

of seeing myself without fruit.