Saturday, 30 April 2016

Pending With Patience the Unpreventable

“Nusch Eluard” by Pablo Picasso (1938)

A florist is scared of openings; inside the mouth of the orchid is the hope of the seller to see
The profit
Suspended on the lanky stem
To mark the tongue of the flower 
With birthmark
For every territory there's seduction at every cycle of the life in which there isn’t a fragrance
To bore those
Prone to allergy
Consider nature as
Worthy of thanks
Among all creation, during the execution of the finest
Superfluous thought was assigned to the order in which the petals would bloom
In the palms of the florist
The flower is conceived as delicately as the newborn child
A celebration of difference without the tears
Or the distraught of fickle mothers
The guilt of astonished 
Father figures
The orchid would rather give birth to itself
Because of bravery
There is no point
In dependency

Hatch from the green umbrella, plump with purpose, the antlers attached on albino chins
Dyed naturally
The genes that run consecutively
Down the stream
Of the green stem
The trunk that sprouts form the chunky soil
Contained in the glass tank
A landmine foreshadowing death, spoilt with moss
And excessive moisture
Become caressed and smelt
The orchid squirms

Friday, 29 April 2016

Zero Mercy For The Commonly Slaved Around

“Baigneuses (Projet pour un monument)” (Bathers (Project for a monument)) by Pablo Picasso (1928)

The dishwasher is exploited on a daily basis to do the chores of lazier beings
Being selfish is inherent in those who pay for their dishwasher
Load on a load
Of overdue food
Unload a load
Of a void
Under which are the hands to support and harness the energy of an exploitation, every time
Pour the soap in generous amounts
Pour in the warm water; marinate further the sticky sauces of a stir-fry
Poor the dishwasher
All awkward and shy against the backdrop of industrialisation

All of the steam smudges onto a very grey, greasy face; here is where there is no time
For reflection
The irony is apparent in maintenance unmaintained
It is so hard to swallow
A broccoli floating fearlessly, somewhere on the surface of the bubbling water
Ride the nerves of the dishwasher, until collection time
Go around with dishes stinking
Coming off with the grime of a colour, undiscovered until now
The dishwasher is determined
Through the storm of the shit of leftovers
The celery among the cabbage, the carrot, the tomato, the lettuce

For god's sake... The dishwasher is calm, because such is life
And you know life is never to be taken for granted
For when overwhelmed, the dishwasher could really project repercussions of which will see
Offended dishes piling
Miles into the air
Go easy on dishwashers...
If the giver of dishes is smart, patience is ought to be given
Or else there are consequences
Or else the flesh, on the fingers of the dishwasher, will cramp and spasm
Will never recover in time

Nothing Is Supposed To Appear of A Potential Hazard

“Musketeer Mousquetaire” by Pablo Picasso (1972)

The main road attached to the poverty-stricken neighbourhood is home to three exclusive
Where the which consists of a funeral house 
A clinic, besides a pharmacy
As if to threaten the foreigner
In their car to take things slowly 
On the road
A dog struggles, under her leash
The only weapon against mankind is the protest of his good friend
Oh friends
The drunken pedestrians who choke the traffic draw the boundaries 

With coloured chalk
An indication of a gross driver is their failure to signal south or east in whichever direction
They will proceed
To turn on a blind eye
Will be a lazy eye 
On the compass
But never as lazy are the eyes of the raven
Sharp and weary of injustice 
In the alliance of hunting for food, greedy bastards will be shunned from the next mission
Which serves them right
Deprivation is sometimes, awfully deserved 

A fella takes extra attention while crossing the road
On the dotted lines he’ll sport the signature stride of a snobbish man 
From a taller view
Arrogance needs to sift for the truth
For the bullshit that spurts from body language, there is much to make of exaggerated posture
Feel for the shoulders
The soldiers to uphold the head
Upon which rules a velvet fedora 
Exploited is the means of compensation for a helmet instead
There's a flaccid bonus under the brim

Thursday, 28 April 2016

Pity In Conjunction With Pride

“Femme assise (Jacqueline)” (Seat Woman (Jacqueline)) by Pablo Picasso (1962)

On the train a lone passenger sits with a bag of lollies on his lap and a bag of weed hanging
Off the edge of his mouth
While he rolls with the times
Everybody wants a strawberry and cream
But those fingers
The fingers of intoxication
Will set spirits high
Alert, alight in an orgasm of not giving a shit, oh fuck get it
Life is free and precious
For the not giving a shit
There are simply not enough shits not to give

Granted the above
A ticket inspector strolls into the carriage of the scene that’s been set
For disaster
Not even today could welcome unfortunate circumstances
How awfully wonderful
Oxymoron said by the moron
Today is a good day
For every single and in-a-relationship passenger can see the glands of the lips of the inspector
Salivating for which cause
It is unsure
The whereabouts of the intuitive

Is compressed under the fluorescent, grey, bulky uniform
Hidden through filtered will
An ordinary woman with an extraordinary craving
Suppressed all for the supremacy of collecting fear
The desire
Is suffering
Both parties will endure the hefty lessons designated for each accordingly
A grand buffet of deprivation
Makes for quite an interesting show
Delighting a dull day
There is good karma to come of this

Outrageous and Unforgivable the Errors of the Oblivious

“Paul as a Pierrot” by Pablo Picasso (1925)

Father please father your son for one more day before the corruption of the sun
The trees hog at the sky
With their branches that make for a bird’s paradise
The birds are flying back from hell with their feathers burnt
As a given
Their beaks are swollen, from the devil’s torture
Speak evil you can of the dead but never the devil
For he lurks where they cannot
On your conscience
Nurture wisely the vocabulary of which will cause sin, a sinner will always bathe in hot water
Adaption to hell

Before it even starts the birds in the tree, start chirping
On rhythm
Away at the indoctrination
The sight of hell is still stuck on retinas beaming, from sensual frustration
A plea
Erase the sin with sunshine instead
An orchestra trials for free, the patience of an angry sleeper, deprived of proper rest
Lethargic in the morning
In general
Hallucinations are on default setting
Sleep in until death almost comes

On your pillow
Roll on your back
Draw back your curtains
Slithering on the cream carpet
The socks you peeled off last night, without grace, thus disgrace
Riddle with the mess on the floor, a mission to dress yourself for the real world outside
Looks down on ya
Frowns are the crowns of the upper class
Worn without a second thought
White socks with black shoes, brown shoes with black trousers
The nightmares of the up themselves

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Eruptions Of Anticipation, Anxiety, And Assurance

“Head of a Woman” by Pablo Picasso (1960)

Feeling nervous is the greatest, nastiest torture of all the forms of nonphysical violence
Nerves are the nerds of the internal world that define
The definition of corruption
Barges through the rehearsals of what should have been the performance of excellence
Now spoiled with the support of a red face
Hands that shiver
Without gloves
The shaking is amplified
Across the conference
The shame starts pouring from the translucent roof, usually a hammock of natural light
Now as dull as ever

The voice of a man defeated
Is barbaric against the perceptions of masculinity
Defeat is worn best by the most earnest
Do not gender disgrace
On the grounds of equality, the shame will always be the shame, regardless of whose name
It bears
The voice of the man conquered
Broke mid-silence with the reluctance to reproduce the left over balance
Which was built on pride, now badly is crippled
The certainty, that success is given
None more

The chances for the unworthy wears thin
On the sleeves of the insecure
A misfortune finds itself a fold in which to slip to bed, the miracle of denial
Is the least of the comforts
Afforded to defeated men
The hypothesis that three weeks from defeat
Is redemption
Lingering perhaps
On the outskirts of optimism, a beach chokes itself to death
So accumulate black clothing
In the mourning you'll sea

Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Verifying the Verdict With Ease and Acceptance

“Portrait de Clovis Sagot” (Portrait of Clovis Sagot) by Pablo Picasso (1909)

There happens to flourish an observation, spills from the thought of the participant
A treasure chest within which
Is a coal concealed in cellophane
Imagine the oral liver, that supports in coercion, the aggression of that burning sensation
Indent on the taste bud
Damn on the roast
Meat off the intriguing brain
A dissection to see inside
The functioning of an organ overlooking identity
Among other considerations
The most vivid is the capacity to assert defence

In the moist convincing way
Overlook the flaws of the naïve, with bright, plump faces
Bargaining with age
Because a day more in youth is the dying man’s wish
And a dying man’s wish is an indication
Of the whole of life’s worth
Yet here begs the question, of what a young man’s wish would be, if in death he were
The epitome of that wish
Well think no further
For it is the same
The prolonging

Of the existent
Instead of the revision of the past presents a tragedy
In both cases
Fill out the death certificate
With a declaration of humour
Only if black humour would humour do
In the service of a favour for a dead person
Begging is a recurring motif
Although not known at whom
Begging is in itself a repulsive expectation if received by a strong sense of entitlement
Efforts are rendered useless

'The Blind Man's Meal' by Pablo Picasso (1903)

'The Blind Man's Meal' by Pablo Picasso (1903)

'The Blind Man's Meal' by Pablo Picasso (1903)

Moulded Relief

Hungry is just another word for deprivation
Over the heads of the homeless people
On the streets they’ve laid flowers
Where once a comrade shared the suffering
Where bare feet have scorned the cold, heartless concrete
Where pedestrians have step foot
On the roses and lilies and tulips
There is no room for empathy

Nor attention
Their morals are loose
Like the shreds falling off torn t-shirts
On backs of burden, stolen from charity bins
The trash, referred to as
Like a siren running down the freeway
There’s still a jam

There’s an asterisk against freedom
It’s cold on my lips
And shoulders
When I shiver under the starlit sky
Who’s next on the savior’s list
Who’s this bending down
Outstretching their arm
Releasing their fingers

Where silver clatters on metal containers
Who leaves
With an entrance
Inside the premises of warm lighting
Enquires speak of but harm
Dinner for how many people
But those people
Are the people who leave

Stroll past my shrine
Collect my tears for fountain springs
Collect my sweat for olive oil
Fry those hearts
Oh those frozen hearts
Numb, and dead, and dumb
Turn down the music
Silver and clattering against the vulnerable chest

When my back brushes against the asphalt, it melts
I melt
I cry
I suffer
To the rhythm of the music of Mother Nature
Nature is fickle
The sky is grey and vast
The clouds are vicious 

On bed sheets of golden thread
Silk veneer
The squirming
Never ceases to sound
It’s music for some
For life
It is suffering
And then the thunder strikes

When the seas erupt
When the skies collapse
It’s all suffering
And it’s a masterpiece
It’s a piano, a guitar, a saxophone
It’s Mother Nature
Her orchestra
And we're still sleeping while they play their song

Headaches On Crack

“Mere et enfant” (Mother and Child) by Pablo Picasso (1922)

The howling of a siren summons back the wondering brain
It is hard to look into the face of your traitor with sympathy, as an intense sadness overtakes
The occupation of the vulnerable chest
Is to fund life for the rest of the body
But the brain persists on playing the drums
Damage the peace with nostalgia
Fleeting in freedom
A collage of random faces are jumbling in the washing machines of the head
Where friends and foes collide
On the rollercoasters 
Who will throw up first  

The party is indiscriminate
Of its guests
The front row is reserved for the respects of the more than average inflictors of discomfort
Aggressively waiting
Impressive in their nature to fake virtue
The flair for drama consists of the dependency on failure
To please the crowd
Counting on incompetence
To attain satisfaction
Beat the drummer slowly
Before the blood spills from the roof

Counsel the naïve mortals on the advice of unthinkable consequences  
That’ll form the basis of objection
From the seniors
Who wear tweed suits and brown loafers
Retire indefinitely for good times sake
That is how you spoil nostalgia
For allusions to the past have the effect of souring the atmosphere, it is known
Indisputable feelings
Go dancing on your taste buds
The flavour of isolation is overwhelming 
As your brain is ready to fuck itself

Monday, 25 April 2016

Lessons From The Odd Habits Of Folks

“Marie-Therese Walter” by Pablo Picasso (1937)

I don’t trust the people who sign off their emails with unconventional terms
For example I hope you’re well
What is the point of establishing charisma or character if you’ve had the whole email
To do that prior
Should the sender be so eager and ambitious to make an impression
Impress the addressee with a fact
Such as the fact 
That mangoes
The fruit
Are known as the king of all fruits
And no fucking wonder

For mangoes are marvellous
Get a chair from the lounge room
For whom
That bastard can get it for themselves
If laziness is the clear initiative of asserting orders, your time is due to find a reflection
Off of all of the accountable and possible resources
Advise the creature in response of that reflection
To go fuck
And there’ll still be
A willing email sender participant

To wish them well
In the jungle of unread emails
The spam is the bait of boredom
Never to be fulfilled the malicious intent of wasting time
There is a special place in hell for time wasters
Although it makes no sense to have at all special connotations for a place, like hell
If home to the doers of homicide  
The borders of the boundary
Should be confined by shrubs or steel
Either or, better be sealed
For freedom could easily leak out from under the balance

Ultimately Dodging the Spear

“Tête d une femme morte” (Head of a Dead Woman) by Pablo Picasso (1902)

Solace is the result of seeking the permission, more advice, of your siblings, to plead absence
On Wednesday modules
Hell was waiting a head
Of itself
The trauma of confined dismal space
Filled with profoundly judgmental peers
The pressures of whom brings fourth some doubt, among fragility
For the self
For sure
The nerves are slowly settling themselves
From inevitable breakdown

Anxiety consists of the paranoia
Of coming across as dumb
Questions that inflict embarrassment on the speaker themselves, and listeners alike
Oddly some learners prefer listening
But are mostly lazy
In their justification
Laziness has brought the circumstances thus far
Into a whirlwind it is
The temptation to withdraw form the world of the artificial appreciation of intelligence
When critical discussions
Make the anxious sick

On purpose
The latecomer to every meeting picks a vacant chair
With close examination
Brushed off as convenience
Or considerate a gesture of saving time
The irony in which goes unobserved
Settles down with a storm of confidence
The sense of mystery backfires for it serves even more troubling attention 
If camouflage was the intention
It has failed
On the premises of insecurity retire at the rear of the room

A Round of Ignorance and Implied Retribution

“Tête de femme” (Head of a Woman) by Pablo Picasso (1902 – 1903)

Quench the knots of the nerves rolling inside the foul stomach
With affirmations of self-assurance
Better is the mantra to recite in the future of incoming shame
Stubborn fronts for self-defence
Do not burry the head in between the barriers of hunched back shoulders
A sour disposition
Illustrates the pressure placed on the quiet to contribute to the high, precious conversations
Of being a snob
Reserve the seats for special people
The people who deem themselves worthy
Of those seats

Are usually anything but
A poor excuse of a human being
Biting on their egos
With clenched gums
Diseased teeth
Where tongues bleed judgement
Project humour to diminish the presence of the might-as-well-be-absent
The ritual of forcing the discreet, to stare with conviction, at a point on the vandalised table
Nothing in particular
Settles their satisfaction
Like the squirming of successfully victimised patrons

In the room
There is an authority figure
Who stands at the white board with a pen in hand of venomous discharge, ready to strike
Corrupted handwriting
Illegible and dwarfish sizing
For philosophy 
Ready to report on the quitters of conversation
Stop staring at the already victimised
A competent conversation is one in which the expectation of new voices
In expense of comfort
Should never be called upon

News to Struck on the Nervous System

“Portrait de Dora Maar aux yeux bleus” (Portrait of Dora Maar with Blue Eyes) by Pablo Picasso (1939)

Speak as much evil of the dead as possible, before they die
A face that whether full of life or death, remains equivalent in one blank, motionless stare
Contemplations are settled behind
How to forge concern
In times of grief, choose either from body language or verbal comfort
There are so many beans to be spilt
For the eager ears of the patient snitch
Tickle their eardrums
With false conflict as gossip
Their faces are boiling with embarrassment in the urge of which
Confines them in the cell of the need to crack on the truth

For the general public
How generous a motivated act of selflessness
Involves the dead
From the grave, there’s a weed pretending to be a flower
Like so many of the guests who do, at the funeral, crawling from the concrete
There is a song that sweeps them off their knees
That shivers the spine
Exposure is the endorsement of addiction
Therefore limit the funerals to which attendance would result
In the frequency of bearing witness to death
And dying

There is no favoritism
At least
An irrational fear has some form of mercy for there is reason to conquer the absurd
The unsound
Silly, ridiculous
Stupid, ludicrous
Beliefs of which will have their own tormentors, depending on their levels of insanity
The brain isn’t yours to control
For fear is something you can’t suppress
On demand
Beware of the coffin catching your shadow

Yuck Is The Offence To Be Sprung From The Mouth

“Acrobat and Young Harlequin” by Pablo Picasso (1905)

The star of the show could be a burden backstage and the audience would still clap
For they are the fools
Of real entertainment there is only deception
To be enjoyed
Smudge your face with a handful of fear
For that is a sign of submission
Pull two fingers from each hand
With fingernails still in tact, except dirty, degrading, almost abusive to their host
Is regardless an indication of a peace offering
However, never taken literally
Insulting the genuine

To be a fool fear is the fuel of choice
Inhale the consequences of which you might die
Under the spotlight
Turn around and you shall trip over the sloppy slogans, harsh giggling and don't dismiss
The offensive applause
And laughing, again
Curse at your script from the audience
There is a cheque to be cashed
In the name of capitalism
Whose signature will stand with the most authority
When they are all just motifs of a motherfucker

Sign on the dotted lines
The contention to elicit from the recipient
An orgasm of admiration
How bold the strokes, how flamboyant the strands of interconnected scribbling
Water the mouth
To relive a disgusting thirst
That should they understand
Unfortunate circumstances will unfold, in which
The flowers will die
Birds will choke, themselves to death
And back to life