A Sunday in Madrid Robert Wyatt

Pa arrives in the city of the closed doors
Greeted by miners from Asturias
His limousine streaks past giant shiny moneyboxes
Huddled together for warmth
He is deposited in his inner chamber

Later, Pa meets the bear, impersonates a tree
To confuse the hell's gates dogs' sense of smell
And rests for chess with no-one
Then (amongst the closed doors) he shrinks
Is dwarfed by rabbits, expands again
To invade the destiny of fourteen mysterious others
Strangely clad, captured by a camera
Carefully arranged, with a space for his image
A plot hatched by fate

Pa looks for diversion in the written word
Meanwhile, the mundane world seeks solace in illusion
An imprisoned rainbow gives shelter to the homeless
A painted machine registers the weight of mystery
And for background interest a kilometre of women
Queue to kiss a wooden foot, patiently
The Queen had been
But no information, in the city of the closed doors
On Christian Spain
Elsewhere, bare buttocks wait their turn
In vain. No guides available. All busy in the Prado
Followed by shuffling feet. Fascinated. Perhaps