South

Oh, those Latins. See them stumbling
Into their own labyrinths. So lush,
These jungles which enfold romantics,
Such as Lorca, Paz and Borges. How
Their honeyed words roll off the mind
And into darkness. I'm in downtown
Buenos Aires, broke and broken,
Set in stone, a Raymond Chandler
Sort of guy, who spits his words
Like Uzi bullets. I wish, sometimes,
That I could fly off into their Mato
Grossos, tossing meaning to piranas,
Living lushly within squalor, Mosto
Verde in my hand, but I cannot.
I've come in vain, another pale-
Skinned German with an opaque
Past, no sense of rhythm, unappealing
To this city's dark-eyed tango dancers,
Or to those half-African, half-Indian
Inhabitants of poets' minds and labyrinths
Which show up, wreathed in mist,
Throughout this continent.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 46 times
Written on 2020-09-19 at 01:03

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