Evening fell and as I attempted Proust, all my guilt came home to roost.
All at once, my shame it rose, jolting limbs from rich repose.
I knew well this sad sensation (a diurnal fixture of my resignation),
but tonight was different, tonight was new.
In my bones a fresh malady grew.
No longer was a simple spectre brewed,
no longer the chill of my lost Blue Nude.
The visions that held me then, and the horror that holds me still,
is the carnage of Guernica and dead horses in a field.
Dead horses in a field cast my stomach black.
Franco’s fleet foot incendiary yield did my conscience rack.
Where was my saccharine melancholy?
The prize for years of mortal folly,
of grandeur sought and storming mood,
my sweet misty release, Blue Nude.
No thoughts could stand still in that dead horse field,
no dreamy reflection of the fate I’d sealed.
All that stood was acrid panic, rictus features and ash Germanic.
Good God my appetite has been so crude!
Crying hunger, whilst on fat I chewed, leering and aching and waltzing Blue Nude.
So when market day came I took to that field, her as my armour, my Svalinn Shield.
There in Guenica I stood and floods of fire fell,
as black fat cracked under grinning shell.
Evening still falls, far off bells do peal,
whilst in Guernica I lay, twisted amongst those dead horses in that dead horse field.