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

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

Rest
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

Exits 

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

Especially 

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

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

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

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

Compassion

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

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

Themselves

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