
Saturday, 30 January 2016
Thursday, 28 January 2016
Ranking Obsession

“Femme au miroir” (Woman in Mirror) by
Pablo Picasso (1963)
An old man looks at himself in the mirror and enquires with faith
Do I want to look poor or rich today
Because I am capable of either or
Just a thought: classy people, real classy people can look classy even when they are naked
Clothes barely dictate men into either direction of the wealthy spectrum
The man chokes on his own wit; for the first time sees just how old he really is
Makes him mad
There's an audience for every genre, so don't you worry
There's an audience for every genre, so don't you worry
When strangers judge exteriors
Under the uniform is a real man
Who’s dying
Who’s dying
Quite frequently
Who gives
But it’s clear who takes, because they keep on taking
It’s now the norm to be selfish and scorning, in the notion of pure freedom or what else
It’s now the norm to be selfish and scorning, in the notion of pure freedom or what else
The platform for striking is still open for double standards
And a burger
Minus the pickle
It’s a fashion to be subtlety fascist, except they shave their moustaches now
In this society
In that society, you say
What after all is society
The citizens who come all circulate around the old men, with false cranes and real teeth
Like a moth dying to be dead
Or a fly invading public space, in a traffic jam when you roll down four windows
When the ancient music of the Taj Mahal is playing
And your sister is sleeping
Peacefully that is
Until the fly lands on her face, and in her mouth
Prompts a dance
And a death threat
The old man’s smiling in the back seat
So in respect we smile back
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
Cashing on Threats

“Portrait de Jacqueline” by Pablo Picasso
(1961)
Guarded
gates are first and foremost an indication of hostility
A
guard with a smile on is rare
A
guard without his guard on is even more so
How
do some people wear their fedoras the wrong side around
A
feud is terrifying
With
your family
Bored but not dying of boredom
Bored but not dying of boredom
There
are no excuses for insecurity
But old
men do little to nothing to embrace the changes they seem to object to upon
The
premises
That
the house is slanted
People
keep throwing shit around on Thursdays
The
smell of a dying bird evaporates in the backyard
It
looks like nothing’s happened whenever the rain stops
My t-shirts
are worn out, hard and harsh in texture, aren’t white enough
The
winged and moving are oblivious to their advantage
While
worms are a phobia for some, they’re a delight for others
Fine
dining under the dirt, there’s a big one slithering in one huge slump of crack cocaine
Fine,
fine, fine
There’s
something sliding down my back
Wriggled
and compressed beneath the juxtaposition
Of
skin and fabric
Boring
people must learn to appreciate loud music
Two in the morning you’d think the speakers would've stopped or the cops
would've arrived
But
it’s not a scene anywhere to be seen
But
on the television screen
But
in the lyrics of melancholic people
There’s
something
There’s
a woman across the street and she’s watching me as I dump my garbage
In my
neighbor’s bin
She
cringes
I see the delight fire up in her eyes, when she storms inside without even bidding
farewell
No one needs your adieu
Monday, 25 January 2016
Banish these Bastards

“L'enfant
au pigeon” (Child with a Dove) by Pablo Picasso (1901)
Open the fucking door! Grandma yearns against her lungs and all odds to see granddaughters
And a grandson
Instead a flock of birds fly in
With tattered feathers
A beak to chirp slogans for barfing
Say we love you so
Much so, there’s some take away in the
bag, love is a euphemism, for leftovers and shit
Shut your brag holes
Grandma’s too tired to testify
You, the material for scorn
Will show you the door
I’m high on cholesterol
But I could make a fake Rolex look real
On my wrist is, in fact, the Rolex
Grandma, also known as Mrs. G,
Otherwise G Mrs.
Gave me
Cousin’s trying to make G-Ma stick
No one’s going to triumph the reference,
in honour of her wisdom
When grandma was the only word she registered in
regards to her
We sneak behind a bending back
And say slide slide, crane crane, cough!
Mrs. G is here
So here she’s coming
Seek
The shitheads fly every now and then
It’s too late to turn our backs on the shark
in the ticket booth
With tattered fins
The expired grin
Beams of pride and illegitimate cause for communication
How the moods change faster than the seasons
There’s an ant clinging onto my arms and it
suggests, humour is the solution to hatred
It says, who cares man, just smile
But hatred, a friend, is the hungry man's solution
Friday, 22 January 2016
The Maestro’s Muse

“Le peintre II” (The
Painter II) by Pablo Picasso (1963)
Pablo says the sun is subject to transformation dependent on the
painter
The sun is either a spot or a speckle from the dew that
drips from the brush
Every stroke is a vein
For the life of the painting depends on
the painter, who curls at his fingertips
The fate of the miracle is within but good hands
Abundance of routes to take from the wrist to the tips
of the fingers a mountain
Concealed underneath
New skin
Breed life into the painting
The canvas suffocates underneath the application of ammunition
The layers of superficial control
Condemns the subject to the background in which he has only
himself
The table upon which the painter places a bowl of fruit
Is but edible
So the subject starves to death
Agony is but a preference
A death is taken much too lightly on fabric
The criminal is bound to walk free by default
Banish barbed wire with a broomstick full of pink blood
The colours have but little time to arrange themselves correctly
In the queue there’s an old man groaning for release or an
earlier sentence
Sign on the bottom of the premises the password to grant upon the enactment of the will
Paint ears with diligence
Determination is power
The painter squirms inside his eyeballs with the precision
required to master the curves of
The eardrum’s packaging
A clean stroke is music for the eyes of the painter
Have their interest invented only in the ambiguity
Of whether the ear painted is fixated in reality
On the right or left side of the subject
Screeches
The subject sighs
Under the paint, there's hardly oxygen to survive
Thursday, 21 January 2016
Duplicate and Relieve

“Claude and Paloma Drawing” by Pablo
Picasso (1954)
Weep
through ignorance with cardboard tissues
It is
inevitable when I slab off the deserter again who is the traitor to authenticity
Toast
exterior greetings and let us raise our insecurities
To the loners who are left for dead who steal their friend’s signature and prose
Leave
the professionals to master their own craft, please
Retire
to your house and the sad office inside it
Is
empty
Minus
a dysfunctional lamp
Give
back the papers until you plead guilty to plagiarism
Steal
from the poor his only pride
Read not
for support but inspiration and theft
Grant
credit where due
Exploit
creativity
Survival
is just an institution
Deny
the influence, upon inspection
If
only you’d tested your limits like your water
You’d
have saved yourself from those burns of rejection
That
still burns you still
You’re
flesh and burns
The scabs
are only reminders of why our backs are facing but the front
The
concern is mutual but the privilege is all mine
So
mind my business for me if you will
The
enemy will not acknowledge harassment and freedom of speech as different
entities
Scribbling
love and darling reputations in atmospheres of total indifference
What
does it imply when they’ve got genres for people attracted to intelligence
Only
What
does the general population have to say
Shuteyes
when the balls start bouncing towards your face
When
the musician
More
like the magician
Describes
his music as shit
What’s
the point of singing the same songs if the lyrics have expired to hold their
meaning
The goose bumps will come upon the ringtone on stage
Quarter Fever of the Furious

“The Shadow” by Pablo
Picasso (1953)
Who waits for their carriage to cross the roads of narrow minds
and dirty mouths
Sit here to ease yourself with a bird’s eye view of her balding
head
There's an animal somewhere
In there
It's waiting for the next foul to drop its ball of bullshit
The burden is ours to share
The privilege all yours
The name of the loser goes to the round up of winners
For the next round
The parade waits not for no one
Come closer to hear the coin drop
The kidneys gasp, the jaws drop
With ten-cent coins, fasten the coward’s lips with the absence
of sound
The show is stark and slowly it swallows every ounce of energy
Inside every loyal man
There’s a drop
The racist clings onto my lungs like a leech in blood
Racism is the need to shriek because you are afraid your tranquility
will contend submission
Otherwise defeat
Rest well the racist who'll squawk again
I’m ashamed
It’s a shame
It’s a mores to pair people with adjectives
To collect and colonise a free species
From the speakers spill the laughter of nonexistent amusement
People don’t stand up for nothing
If nothing they stand for what at all
Under the skin
Above
sea level
Under
the flag there’s a shame ripening below matured skin
Walk
with stead in no direction in the pacific there’s a dear waiting to cross the
road
Who
beams with darkness
There's something, someone is stuck in the door
Racquet Patriots

“Face of Woman” by Pablo
Picasso (1962)
Stride down the slippery slope with puss like confidence, they
clap for me for who I represent
Racism is the sound of the word Jesus, slicing my syllables
before they even slip out
My tongue
Stab arrogance with laughter
Humour exploited as weapon art
Weaponry
On the grounds the troops run on red feet
On the grounds the troops run on red feet
Up here they sit in seats with shoulders slouched and
tongues tortured
In knots of self proclamation
A scream is a scream regardless of the words belted out
Their cheeks are bloated with racism
With racism the knots in our stomachs are tied over in loops of injustice
Rewind the laughter again
Once more
Allude to defeat with the snickering of silent letters, sentence
glory to the guillotine
Lay head upon heads of stubborn endeavor and pour the syrup of
patriotism
Racism is a stomach titled down, and back to front, the audience
squirms inside baggage
Intended to disgust
And leap from one seat to the other
Swipe off the smirks with patriotism
Scream for miles scream for desire
Scream for disaster
Racism is the lady coughing humour into bags of calories, and self-hatred
The lady whose eyes are shielded with lenses boasting fame but
anything but
Connotations of her make us sick
Make us weep
Over blue faces smeared with an outrageous paint
Treat silence like victory for the coward
Barks across the stadium
They’ll never highlight bad sportsmanship
Racism is kicking the seat of the person in front of besides and
next to you
And justice
Justice is the confidence of the children who scream nevertheless
Sunday, 17 January 2016
Furniture For Failure

“Mother and Child” by Pablo Picasso
(1901)
As I
sit in my bedroom and wear the watch my grandma gave me I am
at peace with myself
Just like the rest of us
We’re
just frauds
And I
think
During
his lifetime
Every
man should be the proud owner of a fake Rolex
At
least once
He
deserves as much luxury as she
She
who only wears them real
But realistically she is too tedious and starving on trying times
He’ll
opt for something else more colloquial, and perhaps fitting, for once
But
our fathers' blazers hang off our shoulders two inches, too
far
There’s
beer in the fridge but it’s still not cold
Yet
We’ll drink something else for it to chill
In mean times
We’ll
freeze the show and watch the road outside instead through see-through curtains
A kid
runs after his ball, too
late
So
the drain swallows
Stomps
of self-hatred make for pure entertainment
As
lousy grown-up men contemplate their own future
And
discipline themselves in the black reflection of their plasma screen
On
holidays
They
scream internally and get burnt
By stale
cigarettes stolen second-hand and sip on expired adrenaline, with
alkaline water
Like
we
Feel
sorry for those who need to loo in the middle of the jam
There
isn’t escape
Never
mind famine and a fucked-up driver
Who
curses at himself
Like a bitch
Like a bitch
His
car upon instinct scorns, at the others, without quotation marks,
Kiss my rear
Saturday, 16 January 2016
So Slippery Disguises

"Portrait of a Painter, after El
Greco" by Pablo Picasso (1950)
On
poor diets swallow dry saliva and make silence to ancient music of the Taj
Mahal
Meditate
on stems of leather chairs
Too
old to swivel
Any
longer spin around the clock with hands, who ache in aggression
Fingers
burnt from the enlightenment of tea candles
Whereas
the drums keep beating
Beat
on
Bodies
entwined in grace to groovy spasms
Till collapsing on the dirty carpet ground
Brown
and speckled with white fibers the source of which will never be known
But
needn’t concern
Cobras
sup on the slide of depression wine
Heaters
for throats
In
drought
Dry
hands are a burden to the touch
Cast
spells on magic in lotion bottles
Three
drunken snakes
Hissing
in the corner
An
ambiguous shadow
Stare in contempt or confusion, the hissing ceases to stop regardless
Summon
three backup dancers from the underground
From
baskets of straw seduce the serious
With
flutes
Of
skin or otherwise, drink water instead
But dance and swivel
But dance and swivel
On backbones
of shell delicacy
Fractures
by fractions
Of
fragility
And
lust
There
is a flood streaming somewhere down the road
Inside
the tunnel
Under the red light, there is a snake hissing on someone's face
Under the red light, there is a snake hissing on someone's face
And it crawls under the skin of only the sober
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Blasted For Bad Habits

“Buste de femme assise” (Bust of a Woman
Sitting) by Pablo Picasso (1960)
Because
I’ve never read a poem that opens with justification I thought I’d start
one myself
The
way Picasso portrays a woman’s breasts is far from the goal of
consistency
Or the
desire that ensures
The artisan
Is loaded
in lab coats
To paint with silicone
The clone of the perfect human form
Comes
from
But a
womb
A
little swelling is a reasonable price
Picasso
was among those to free the nipple first
Let’s
move on from Picasso
Indeed
discuss the patient’s fright that distresses
The
skin
Rough
like sun-dried canvas
Complexions
of strokes from stress
A
woman on canvas is immortalized
Makes
god jealous
Those
bridges that divide the human faces in halves
Were
built to stop the sweat from sliding to the other side
There
are exceptions to rules of greener grass
But
yellow fields do make for better backdrops and art
Which is hard to debate
Is easier
than poetry for no one harasses the painter more than they’re tempted to tax
the poet
On demands
of curiosity
Confusion
is the cousin of confrontation
For
some reason it seems more rational to question the abstraction
Of
poetic obstacle courses
Yet noble
to accept the nature of ambiguous art
I bet
you’ll be surprised to learn that Picasso also wrote poems
Will take offence if you dare to question his feelings
But
not his paintings
Ultimately, however, preferably neither
Saturday, 9 January 2016
Weaklings at War with Humour

“Femme se coiffant” by Pablo Picasso (1956)
I will never get sick of that smirk
Neither the speech nor the tangling of limbs with skillful interpretation
She is entrapping a charge
But what’s done isn’t done well when she does it
Because her smirk is an indication of a darker morbid subliminal message
Of some sort of power
I can assume
She theories already about the orders in which she'll deconstruct foul bodies and recite
The sins are thicker on our skin
Like grime and the poison that gives the frown its fury
I can’t stop thinking about that damn smirk
She wears with admirable expertise the impact of implicit intention
But her clothes are on backwards, like her front of indifference
Buttons aligned in crisscross notions of rage
A rally is evident in the silk collar that binds together the blouse
The green is soothing on eyes
Yet torture on the tongue
Her face is but man’s estate to obstruct
Where ruins have spilt from those foreheads of one thousand odd years
Somewhere along those routes
There’s a wire assembled for self-destruction
When the grin speaks be careful
But hardly audible for indoctrinated participants
Caught in clouds of delusional comfort
There is a spear in the stuffing and that’s the stock of corruption
Is what I want
A stomach filling too fast
Would rather stay full than throw up
The flags of surrender
Are ashamed in hands
Thrown every arms on the ground
And nurture those gun wounds before they bleed explicitly
Illness and Illusion

“Woman in Hat and Fur
Collar” by Pablo Picasso (1937)
My brain is hairier than my head, and these shoulders are stiff
My face hurts from falsely smiling
The camera is corrupted
I’m too tired to act for too long
I can’t smile
I am distracted by the waiters carrying their tall champagne
glasses on those greasy trays
The bartender is a real awful bitch
And I’m still smiling
Because the photographer is flirting with his flash
While I’m still an aching, melodramatic catastrophe
With no future
I want to go home
It is the second day of dread and domestic drama
Except the walls are painted and the floors are freshly tiled
But still somehow greasy and gross
Like my hair under the green fedora
There's a mosquito bite on the left side of my face and it is going blue
There is a bomb going off inside
And it stinks
Spilling their secrets and therefore threats
Will you please trust me
That’s all I ask of you
Is to trust me, if I am willing to trust you
Trust is something you teach yourself
Or so I have been taught... By who you ask
By myself… As if that wasn't obvious enough
I brush my teeth in the shower now, because I can’t bear to
see myself in the mirror
Some have said I am always green
And gross
Apparently people just go green when they are sick
But I am not a vegetable… yet
While the photographer is still fucking his camera
I can't do this anymore
Friday, 8 January 2016
Salty Tumors
“Mother and Child on the Beach” by Pablo
Picasso (1902)
At
sea the winds beat the boats
The
corpse-to-be is decaying on the deck and the date is somebody’s birthday
For
sure, the ocean employs a drum and an earthquake
Under
the boat, danger is ready
To
fish from the surface, a limb
If
generous, that is the mercy
A
random colour
A
scavenger dressed in costume and worn human flesh, chokes
on his hound
Then wonders why the moon is halved
A
fraction for who
Tomorrow
seems impossible, when the clock ticks on time
A
count down is enjoyable, if only there is spare time
To
smudge on faces some numbers to dictate the rest of life and win the lottery
With
milestones, marked as haircuts
Identity as flexible as red curves out of nowhere
The smile on grim faces by default
Always
find someone to blame
As a
form of release, the ocean is forced to give itself to the shore
So
they chuckle
Asking
Why are
fireworks
Also a sign of tragedy
There’s
no point waving hands
Or
shaking them
In cold temperatures, blood will freeze
Inevitably reserve
those questions for the people on different occasions
Perhaps
at a memorial
They will
mention something about this
Something
about the boats that kept those tears flowing
Like nerve-racking rivers
That swept the appetite
They're inside the casket
Who love for nothing
Diffidence and Other Difficulties
“La Femme au pot de moutarde” (Woman with
Mustard Pot) by Pablo Picasso (1910)
She says,
the only flaw she has isn’t having any
And she
chuckled and greased at her own arrogance
The
arrogance that makes her the most loving person that she adores
This
confidence manufactured, on fickle foundation
I am
the prey of threats too vulnerable for a praise-worthy hunt if even successful
Not
worth a bragging about
Even
if I were hesitant
I
said to the medical student, I would be a good doctor because of my morals
She
said, but did not say a thing
In
her silence there was acceptance
And I
was surprised
Whereabouts
does the brave man live
Cause
we can’t stop thinking about him
My throat
is dry and her lips still saturated from the salt and vinegar chips
Why
do you do this to yourself
We
ask ourselves personal questions
And hold
them stupid before we stare into the darkness
The
mirror couldn’t swallow your reflection without the sun’s help
It’s
always easier to talk
For
now, I love you better than I do myself
Because
when we laugh
We
laugh in depression
We lie
on the mattress and to each other
About
good times in early hours of history
There
is still a loner
Somewhere
out there
He
could be lying
In
the corner of the room the blue light keeps on flashing
I
almost feel like someone is inside of it
Just
looking
And just
judging
And I
would’ve liked to say you’re welcome
Because it feels so good to have someone else worry about your future as well
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