Tuesday, 29 December 2015

Hallucinations of the Clouded Brain






































“The Absinthe Drinker” by Pablo Picasso (1901)


On the verge of falling off several things as ladders and chairs and sanity
Isolation is ice cold
For sore throats a sip of silence will soothe the suffering
The doctor still has to treat her patients, with delicacy 
Be patient when the victims come begging 
In the mercy the victims will not feel their pain
Both the doctors and the patients live for tomorrow
For hope’s sake the victims will endure every needle  
For god’s sake the doctors will stay away from evil
Revenge is founded through music and movies

Childcares are built for the purpose of neglecting children
Victims are exclusive to reality
Some species of soldiers are untouchable
When your hat gives you away where you choose to stand out in a hairy crowd
Entangled egos are a hopeless case
There’s no freedom at the end of the tunnel
But a pile of dog shit, waiting to be stepped, upon
Never refer to the ground as the face of the earth
For no one’s face deserves to go through so much of the shit that comes with
Construction

Destruction
There is a cycle to suffering
And it starts with the writer’s declaration of how much they love writing
Don't write about writing
Hypocrisy is something to be given into eventually
The next act unleashes
A shocker 
Rapid transactions follow the old man’s stage fright
He flees in his cowboy boots and brown blazer
Who grabs onto his soul still lingering on stage and gasps for air 

Among the Ordinary There is Something that Stands Out






































“Femme assise dans un fauteuil (Jacqueline)” (Woman sitting in an armchair (Jacqueline)) by Pablo Picasso (1962)


Liars cause too much stress and havoc to be forgiven too easily
What’s the need for lying
What’s the need for cheating
What’s the need for screaming
There is no need for question marks where questioning is obvious
Apply an appropriate analysis
Truth is an interpretation
Speak no more of the silence where confrontations are already sprung
From bounded seas the sailor suffocates in the midst of the liar
In full force the liar is flung

Across the seas
Over the trees
And under the gloomy dead grey sky
The dirt will swallow every single fiber of the liar
Who is worthless
Is weird
Is rubbish
Is trash
Mothers will punish their children where pain is due
There is no discrimination in a lesson taught for good

For the earth has never tolerated a thief who steals the truth
The heavens are constantly protesting the sins of man
The sky is a lava lamp
The sky is vast and vicious
The sky is an ocean flipped backwards
On its head
The sky will choke on the doom of mankind and wash away the sins of man
Like men have washed their hands
The sky is waiting to erupt
And the liar is fuel for her explosion

Rituals of Grief






































“Three Women at the Spring” by Pablo Picasso (1921)


It’s always people who are sad over people who couldn’t care less
I could spoil their sadness with my trouble if I were selfish enough  
I would turn the depression into a competition
And crown myself the winner
Of frowns and folding foreheads and sour faces
Fortunetellers leech off facial expressions until they meet their clients
Masked and miserable
What constructs the architecture of a mask, that, once worn
Eyes are inside the sockets of marble balconies
A mask is a container for tears

Wipe softly away the sorrow to spare the salt done bloody
Water will almost dilute with anything
Blood spoils almost everything 
Bar the blood donation
The bags that contain our blood are holy
But blood is not even red
It’s the purple swallowing of cheerful wine
Boast charity
On plasma screens
The weatherman is the only hope of foreseeing the future

Nurse swollen bodies in cotton candy and hurdle over clouds ten feet long
Five feet wide
For the giant they have a special coffin
The giant doesn’t want to live too long
Doesn’t want to be so old he can’t remember how old he is
It will rain during the giant’s funeral even in summer it shall rain
Or else
He’ll never rest
In peace 
The music plays when they slam the lid

Sunday, 20 December 2015

Zoom Rapidly Past Reconsidering


“Female Nude and Smoker” by Pablo Picasso (1968)


The floors are dirty where fake friends have walked
Faces of alleged concern slither through the hallway, on unforgivable account
Don’t come back knocking on his door
Give constant attention to the friendly patient, burdened with suffering inside and out
Victims are the people that people don’t care about
Don’t ask him any questions about 
Privileged confessions
They take for granted 
Poured down the drain a tongue-twisting friendship unworthy of fixing
Fix the villain’s skirt in the mirror
The victim hasn’t time to pay with reason, as tight as… The gaps that need filling  

The volcano sleeps in peace until it is provoked with indifference and attitude
In general, volcanoes will never erupt for any reason 
Red is the recurring image of anger
Don’t ask him about
Resentment of boils at temperatures beyond belief
A clay statue is a human being baked in lava
The body is a bag of the largest organ, which will bleed
Slit at any angle, the body will spill its secrets into the rivers of ash and concrete
Mould from the aftermath a figurine more loyal than a friend
Could ever be
Flee quickly, before the roots scar too deep

The volcano is sleeping
Until they bash him at four in the afternoon
Don’t knock on his door
Twelve hours of sleep seems excessive for them
For him it is never enough
Lava takes time to create to mould to pour and to destroy
Don’t ask
He’ll never reveal
On the link that connects one friend to another, pour the liquid of sleep deprivation
And watch, in silence, strictly
As the world melts to her knees

Roasting on Leaves of the Liver







































“La Vie” by Pablo Picasso (1903)


Deal with concern the twenty-year-old boys diagnosed, with high cholesterol 
What kind of a doctor diagnoses a twenty-year-old victim 
Absorb their disappointment in paper towels of impressive nature
Fry in oil extra virgin the fragility of youth undermined
The patterns of fear in fonts too large for narcissistic handling 
Twenty-year olds can’t approve of the truth typical for the reality, of old men only 
The pyramid is piled with unrealistic expectation.
Blame the twenty-year-old diet of wasteful consumption 
The audience members, inside the pyramid stadiums, are all junkies 
The lettuce is boiling with rage; keep the fucking cabbage away from mouths of the hungry 
Men are so keen for their freedom, far-fetch

Abolish the influence of the blue epidemic 
There is no such thing as mercy 
Utopia contains the family to cancel the invitation of those who turn up sick 
Illness is the shadow that creeps up, upon inspection  
Refunds are only applicable in some circumstances, feed hope with disappointment 
The guards at the gates of heaven were born in hell 
Baskets are sewn for the purpose of fulfilling terror and suffering 
It is hard to read because it is hard to eat
Prepare the salad dressing for pancakes made entirely out of panic
The secret recipe for premature departures have been, for quite some time,
The deprivation of time spent on earth 

No one wants to leave utopia once they step foot inside 
Food is the fountain for youth 
Good health is unattainable even for the gods who worship their bodies 
In mirrors made of clouds, stuffed with daydreams
A nightmare occurs whenever someone knocks on the door of the still sleeping 
Drills can drive away the nightmare 
When sleep is the shield for reality there is no hope
The escape is situated on the left hand side of the right arm 
Only knock on the door of the twenty-year old youth 
In extreme circumstances
Sleep is the only happiness

Wednesday, 16 December 2015

Noisy Whispers and Other Judgements of Quiet People






































“Femme assise (Sitzende Frau)” by Pablo Picasso (1909)


It is dark and humid and full of people talking
Laughter is alarming until the subject for humour becomes clear
I make my way through the boulevard of people squashed between the bannisters and the bar
There's a menu that I'll flip through, but I already know what I need
I'll just get four pillars actually, thanks
I have absolutely no idea what will go into the architecture of the intoxication
Better as a secret
I’ll devour down my throat another twelve pillars in the same glass poured into, on three
Different intervals
I’ll have an apple cider for now

My throat has never been this dry before there is a drought I’m struggling to breathe through
Where is the saliva
The river supposed to flow regardless of request
My body is full of disappointment and unreliable
Now enlisted on the hunt for water
The same lot of people hog onto the jug and they seem especially eager to fill their bladders 
Up
Where is the notch on the bladder that marks the foreshadowing of the burst
In reality, relief flows
In a stream    

My eyes are drawn to the woman who sits alone with a cigarette 
I can’t tell what she is looking at but I wonder what it is
If she is judging someone and I am judging her
Who’s judging me
The bar is a landmark for conversation and I am or have a good chance of entering
Those petty discussions
Are interesting, only when they crown the protagonist
Coloured bottles are enshrined on the hierarchy of the shelves
Their labels are their identity 
Art can be poisonous when it chooses to be 

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Rush and Roll with the Blue-Faced Gentleman



“Man with a Straw Hat and an Ice Cream Cone” by Pablo Picasso (1938)


Fear is the only instrument familiar to the orchestra
The orchestra plays the melody for the audience unwilling to hear their own projection
Suffocation is in the air; the spotlight is fickle and more so than sweethearts
The room is dark and haunted because of the colour blue
The stoned angels weep in the corner illuminated by spotlights of orange splotches
Blue and orange is hardly a predictable pair of harmony
The juxtaposition is complimentary and worthy of your praise
Their arms are hardly armed for flying nor are they ready to be shot down
By fits of depression from the audience
An angel in agony isn’t a pretty sight
How does the orchestra manage to depress a room full of people

Music is only a means of manipulation
Unhappiness floats in the air and undisturbed  
It’s too familiar to feel sad again
Blue is the mood of choice 
Depression daunts the audience whereas only few can appreciate a harmonica
The harmonica weeps when played with, that’s what it sounds like
When the orchestra bows at the end they are bowing to the crazy man with the blue skin
His soulless eyes and the flared nostrils are the trademarks of a gentleman 
He hasn’t shaven in ten years
In another decade from now his beard will be the river to tangle the orchestra with directions 
Of the map expired

He hasn’t a clue what he is contending 
But he is still and just says and writes some more and over
In the hope that someone will read and listen 
It’s not unlikely to go on a foray of harmony with unpredictable people
A nude figure stands in front of the light with a walking stick over his shoulders
The naked body is the ultimate testament to freedom
Only the truly gracious can afford to be flamboyant in their skin
Art depends on the posture of the cold marble
He commands something of someone in his language no one knows about 
Freedom is the instrument never heard when stumbled upon
On the red carpet there is too much noise for music 

Sunday, 13 December 2015

Jumpers of Joy Jogging Simultaneously


“Two Women Running on the Beach” (The Race) by Pablo Picasso (1922)


There is quite a lot of preparation that goes into a beach outing
Why do the capitalists specify towels for the beach when no one cares about the difference
We’ve so much wealth we haven’t better things to do
The beach is a salt mine 
Humans too can benefit from a salt marathon
Might as well
Run with the sunsets on your shoulders; the sky would be thrilled
They’re all so creative the entrepreneurs who sell us their genius 
We are the people they brand the targets of the lower class
Their pledge for poverty   

Why do some people read on the beach when it seems uncomfortable
It probably is
When the wind blows the sand into the spine of the book the pages flip themselves
Thus the sand becomes the bookmark, unintentionally
We shiver in scorn
Bookmarks are useless, when there is one in between every page,
Reading at the beach is redundant
Don’t be so greedy so as to multitask
Attention the bookworms prone to skin cancer 
You either give the beach your full attention or you read in the car

The breaking waves are announcing news: “Tsunami about to claim lives of hundreds”
Marine life is majestic
It’s a better life under the sea where fish are saved from the insanity of human beings
When divers invade the fields of the fish they all die a little inside
Or they do so literally, when they get caught in our net
Is that why we sell fishnets?
To wear with pride, our cruelty
I remember a sad joke from my ten-year-old neighbour I shouldn’t attempt to make funny 
Why was the sea wet. 
"Because the seaweed?" 

Beings of Expectations and Torture






































“Femme assise au chapeau” (Seat Woman with Hat) by Pablo Picasso (1962)


Trains are hard not to protest 
They are unhealthy for patience, for one
The woman who sits opposite to me on my way home from the city at one in the morning 
Keeps on mumbling to herself with ferocious determination 
To achieve something and it might just be to piss me off successfully 
There should be an asterisk against free speech, even for a whisper
In these situations, people will not cease their insult 
Surrender is crucial to the sustainability of peace
A short ride can become hell in an instant
Regret sinks in when you've chosen the wrong seat in a predominantly empty carriage
Decorated with threats and warnings 
I wonder what the devil’s up to

She chants something like mad, which makes me mad because I left my headphones at home
The other night my friend couldn’t tell in which direction the train was travelling 
We are dumbfounded  
Look out for signs either moving further or closer 
We resented math in high school 
I have been contemplating whether I should be a friend to the two people 
Who will render me the third
Getting in trouble is never worth it my friend 
King Me the Third… Or more likely The Turd 
I think I hate myself
But the person sitting next to me is not even my friend anymore 

No matter how bad my day, I am relived when I see a kid in their uniform
I've learnt with success how to overcome what everyone wants, when I’m alone 
I think that’s me 
And that is a slave; I’ve lost many great arguments because my language does not translate
The word expectation 
Why do some people insist on asserting that they get who I am; I don’t know me
Our exams were obsessed with exploring our identities 
As if identity could be paraphrased 
For five paragraphs examiners are quite the snobs 
Remember to write an introduction catchy enough to score yourself a home run
When they laugh in my face I don't know what they find so funny