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

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

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 

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 

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