Our Garcia Lorca,

Men of darkness twisted in shrouds of smoke
Formed from burning scarlets,
Swelling ink-pots of torment spill over the brink
Swilling over the floor right up to the obscured perpendiculars
Contaminating canvasses.
And sunset's rural spirits,
Grown from coarse and barren womb of earth,
Dancing and swimming in the cesspits
Of "social" impressions
Are nothing more than hyenic magpies.
Facades fail readily
Beside the outward functions breaking,
Yet nothing in your limitless universe
Could dare to present itself more appropriate
Than the pair of deviations before you both
Writhing in their restraint:
A mind of a single mustard's seed
Breaks the rocks it falls upon
And flourishes in a blaze,
More southerly, a heart throbs
'Midst unruly temperaments
With mastery to incarcerate any living creature
And force it to its unbeknown, lustful knees.
Secondly, wounded righteous man,
Not with a once-child's blood and defecate decay
Fall behind a daring life's stride
But a realm that all splendour cannot surmount,
All forms fluid and distinguishable
Needn't ever be accounted for,
Or be denied the taste of familiar flesh.

They will not see the barrel's end, our Lorca.