Malagueñas
The music of the tavern comes on black
Flamenco stallions. Horseshoes cause the banged
Out rhythm. Death is seldom Spanish slack
Though always sweatless. Drinkers are harrangued
With songs that rise from olive groves too old
To offer anything but threat but lips
Suck on. If death comes in as something cold
Through doors, the customers continue sips.
If death comes in, then it will also go.
Men know this as the singers sing. They shrug
Or maybe do not shrug. They simply know.
They breathe in thickening tobacco fug.
A gypsy man is hanged, a gypsy raped
Beside her girl. That’s how music is shaped.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Apr 16, 2025 | CA, DE, Uncategorized |