Sleepless in Cuernavaca

Here in Cuernavaca my insomnia has become
unbearable, gored by the guilt of gold guitars  

I vaguely remember dreaming that 
Wolfsburg of Zaragoza was buried 

To the tune of falling stars. I’m not troubled by
such visions but by these packs of wild dogs 

That sniff and hump and bark (like we do
or pretend to) beneath the blue gazebo 

Outside Cholula they say they’re rebuilding
the pyramids, replacing the asylum at the base 

With discos and mezcal bars. I can see it now
building blocks of smog and burning tar 

And at the top will be the staring eye of my insomnia
speared on the horn of a mad guitar.

---