Iberia

Wet wild dreams of sleep with vagrant imagination you have thought to destroy my bastard nature. I have brought you to the country which is near to the father that this bastard could never have. Here where the conquistadors first boiled their sperm, pierced the egg and denuded the myth to conquer my people. Sperm which destroyed theirs and my purity. Wretched they, our memory fails to remind theirs of the mothers, then virgins that they raped. But nature branded them on that day that they saw land, land, with the perfidious bodies of criminals which now have grown egos only equal to god’s. They may not remember but their sight alone is a pneumonic echo for us to relive the wars our bodies surrendered but our souls never lost.

Their children now conquerors claiming progenitor’s privilege though as then their steel swords are buried words of distinction recited with Don Quijote’s bravado, always in the end better conquerors in their homeland. Their valiant knight dead even when he was alive a dream of victories. Now their golden culture falls sleep before the free hand of progress and please, no more singing at the bars, no more sleepless plazas, no more flamenco just to dance. Yes dear dreams I have brought you here where the royal cipher is to see, where our old world roots first cashed in jewels, a place that now increases like winter the less of everyday. A people that once stole our sol and gave us a false god which fails our simplest scrutiny, and hides unlike our unabashed Sol. Iberian funnel made of Spaniards who delivered our pot of gold to Anglo Saxon greed.

We must abandon them to perform their agonizing eulogies and return with the wisdom that we did not need to be conquered, more it was that they needed to conquer and we concurred. Winds and oceans cease all motion, jumping rabbits dying histories, ruins as altars nourishment for egos dying with quotations for last gasps. Incessant classic plaza parades of gun powder’s victory over our arrows, fought for a god of gold and a church with a convict for a pope, glorious celebrations where wind mills were vast armies; El Toro, Toro is lavished with warrior spirit Ole, Ole, and with valiant gallantry butchered, make your own monsters and then save yourself; fear, what skeletons guard with the strictest of decorum, part of them is me, doomed ghost of the mannequin empire which survives ever indebted to the echo!