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