hmmm yes er Spanish fleas what an old romantic tatty rag bag of a man you 
reproduce with his serenading and all his charm. I like the aphrodisiac 
twist with Spanish Fly only he makes the flesh creep instead of coming 
alive. I can just see the man, the flip flops the grubby toes and the guitar 
lying like a woman's body on the couch  maybe that is all he will be able to 
seduce hmm. hot sex and passion and stallions with no horizons its all 
there. Well written and funny Bw Sally J


>From: grasshopper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: Spanish Fleas
>Date: Sat, 29 May 2004 17:10:57 +0100
>
>                Spanish Fleas
>
>
>He is wearing flip-flops again, strumming
>the strings of the old guitar he brought
>in a flea market outside Córdoba - -C ó r d o b a
>I said Why don't you buy fleas instead, and start
>a circus? He laughed. Everything slides off him.
>He starts to sing about dark eyes and romance.
>Not my dark eyes, I trust - my eyes
>are more aquiline than columbine.
>His sinister fingers pattern the chords, his grip
>flexing and releasing. Melody is a wordless lie,
>I think, and his bare toes are grubby.
>
>I grill peppers and aubergine, grate
>white cheese, drizzle green and purple leaves
>with oil from a squint-glass bottle,
>while he plays the Andalucian songs,
>cante jondo. Siempre, siempre he croons,
>mi corazón, amor - all lies, consumed by time
>like fresh leaves, like light swallowed by a cavern.
>¡Hermoso! he gasped, when he saw the black
>and mahogany figures on the walls.
>He bought postcards of the ancient hunt. Stallions
>and aurochs floating on stone, without horizons.
>
>Our dark eyes meet above the music.
>Dinner I say and he flip-flops to the table.
>The guitar lies full-bellied on the couch
>like a sleeping woman. I feel fleas moving
>across my skin as he eats my food,
>and smiles. Corazón, amor, siempre,
>those parasitic words. The itch of flesh.
>
>                              (grasshopper)
>

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