Green Spanish Eyes - Part 1

Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes, I discern them again where she left me back then,                  as we kissed when she parted, my friend. Through those ruins I tread towards the footlights, now dead,                  where I’ll muse as her shadows ascend.                   .                           . Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes; her serape entangles her brooches and bangles                  like lace on the sorcerer’s looms, and her cape of the night, she drapes tight to excite,                  and her fan is embellished with plumes. Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes; taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina                  performs on the music hall stage, but she shies from the sound of ovation unbound                  like a timorous bird in a cage. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes; as the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing,                  igniting the wild fireflies, and the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers                  to coil neath the cold caldron skies. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes as I rise from my chair and proceed to the stair                  with a hesitant sip of my wine. Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me                  with neither a look nor a sign. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the stage with her green Spanish eyes, (for her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning                  of kisses of Judas that sting, with her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating)                  and smiles at the magpie that sings. Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes, for a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger                  has captured the rhyme in the room as he slips into sight through a crack in the night                  midst the breath of her heavy perfume. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes – from his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane,                  to the raven engraved on his vest – for a faraway form, a tempestuous storm,                  lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her breasts. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes; with the castanets clacking like ancient masts cracking                  he whips ’round his cloak with a whiz and without sacrificing, at mien so enticing,                  she floats with her face facing his. Continued in part 2