Castles In Spain

Drumming from the amps, bristling with snares and hooks, (“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”); Aide memoirs of the past, post-war resurrection, stubbornly, Wreathed in wires of smoke and delineated by baselines, (“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”); In the imaginary glare, scrubland plains play host, The homeland of bleached white sonic structures, Aspiring to touch the scorched stonewashed sky, (“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”); Ravaging the cold corpses of pastoral dictators, Burying them in gritty sand, interring with their Emotional fascism for companionship on the final Journey into the heartlands of the dead conquistador, (“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”); In that hopeless kill zone of love and promises, That vain and empty body of soulless night, That reflective insult of scorn and terrible beauty, Replications of dreams laid bare, films on her iris, Panoramas populated by citadels of waste, (“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”) (“I see in your eyes…castles… in… Spain!”). But what can I do?