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 
When strangers judge exteriors 
Under the uniform is a real man 
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  
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
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
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
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
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
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 
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 
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
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 
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 
Is there more to come off that grime 

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
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