Wracks Him with Saddles Him

In Lorca’s yawl of penultimate paradigms
this world’s a charade smokes papa abnormally
his mind is a coffin blacker than lignite
his tone is existence contains the axe of his foot

His tale is a prop colder than loci, yelling
“In six tales of two horrors swimming ashore
Tampa’s a murder mentates impossibly—

the Lorca of shells shining upon strands
the Lorca of alleys & hallucinations eminent at limits
the Lorca of puppet-glory sailing towards death
propped on one leg.”

His dream’s a flamingo
wracks him with saddles him
meaning the watery distillates
of what are his chances

In that hour of grievance lost on reflection…
In that theater of circumstance gold as a beard…
Lorca’s a digger if not as a grave
his lips such a monkey
his papa a mango pinker than twilight