Fuerteventura Facade

On the roof through the ten circles in the sky
the blue lady catches the yellow lady’s eye.
Pulling the taut strings she sees many things;
looking coy as is the yellow lady’s ploy
with her teasing-taut yellow skin and lack of hair,
her roof-top nakedness insists that we stare.

See the tented house without form or structure,
of this Gaudi reuse stand in awe and rapture.
This recycled world standing on parade,
a strange bohemian signature this façade.
This sensory pageant which at our senses call,
a riddle catching thoughts wherever they fall.

Those ample plaster torsos stacked against the sky
with shocking coloured skins to taunt the passerby.
Plastic-fantastic statues with painted spray-on vests
highlighting blue and yellow perfect pert breasts.
And with their piercing eyes and fuck-off red lips,
accommodating hands resting on easy plastic hips.

Shaped blocks coloured blue white and brown
imbue in the conservative a puzzled frown.
Hieroglyphics embedded in the garden wall
making to the old elements the common call.
Here the lady in the white hat sank into the sand
and now only her old blue-brown boots still stand.

On the gates are painted her knowing green eyes
drawing the careless across the Styx to their surprise.
Through the hole in the wall see a pale arm reach,
grasping the red lipped tulip, the unwary to beseech.
Touching the lush softness of petals from her prison
drawing in the weak to her sinister sensory mission.

With grey-blue scales having waited in a garden recess
the shadow-shoal darts across the cement excess.
Swimming across the fresco on the garden wall
pastel-pixels punch out colour from which images call.
These thought-fish shooting by giving it their all
casting shadow stains on the blistered white-wash wall.