Rachel Clarke

Black rainbow over Berlin
Surfing its wave
Federico García Lorca
emerges and vanishes
in the heat haze,
wild garden haired, sandy skinned,
laughing eyes a-fire with tears,
stomping flamenco heels,
he’s dressed in a red dress to impress,
spraying words like blood
to sparkle in the skies
as ruby jewel stars.

I left Granada with regret,
with traces of Lorca firmly lodged
in my cheek, eyebrow and hair.
Back in Berlin, in my apartment,
now darked by a black rainbow,
sits Lorca cross-legged on my writing desk,
firing up a sticky mass of opium.
In clouds of billowing black smoke, 
he jokes that the Spanish of his era
are more alive dead
than the Northern European artists alive today.

Lorca, the day when you arrived,
the clocks struck and stopped at five.
now my appartment is open all hours,
the balcony a-bloom with red and yellow flowers,

Crickets sing in lust in all corners,
while five bulls black as jet wearing green rosettes
gallop up and down the halls,
love-making men in the bath shake the flat walls,
while in the backroom, before a surreal audience, 
a filmmaker violently argues his cause,
and after a poignant pause, a narcissist painter declares
“I deplore and denounce folklore!”

…

Gesamtdauer 12 Min.