Golden serpents reflect clouded aspirations
and dilute enlightenment into dust.
Unicorns on tap,
degenerate horns the same.
Duality collides in foam,
and crystal line faithfully follows.
Red, green, white, brown,
color without ground.
Gold label wishes spawn corporal delight.
I sip, I think.
Tequila drains and I sink
under watchful bartender’s watch;
he barters, I the martyr.
Empathetic refills offer buoyancy,
offer logistics to linguistics.
There, climbing golden towers appear
where snakes once sputtered,
powdering their scales, exfoliating our fear.
Delicious venom lacquers the runway,
eyeballs dash around.
Slithering tongues caress my shoulders;
nub of wing, stub of horn.
Gory gamblers
slap the dice down
for a joint in a snifter.
And for under-the-table tricks, little known
are the New Zealand drifters, the British bombers not quite,
our randy kicks ‘n’ their swingin’ misters,
all convened here in one Portuguese night.
How now, the Castilian escapists, the dance floor rapists,
and somehow, Gypsyified me.
Blarney revelers need not apply.
At the tip of essential Iberia.
June 2002
Visits: 201
