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 
Is there more to come off that grime