“Head of a Man” by Pablo Picasso (1969)
The soup that warms their hearts makes me sick
What’s your change
That’s hardly enough to suffice the appetite irrelevant of consumption
Chase the green lights and lime
A gust of wind is an earthquake and tsunami
Combined
A combination of freckles and fears on weathered faces
It’s a treasure that lies inside
A lie does not spring from the face
The face does no liar
Tongues wag their mouths
I’m dead in my head
But on the floor
It is dirty and degrading
A body shivers in its own burdens
When you strum your fingers inside the butcher, the butcher cries inside his fridge
The shrieking of swine
Fouls the aura of the solitude
There isn’t art
I rock, back and fourth for the lullaby
The butcher
He bangs on the swine he bangs on their heads he bangs on their legs
He sips on his eight-dollar bottle of wine
Serial, serious
Are you a maniac
A butcher’s hands are dipped in blood
For you numb in the name of the being notorious
Not his fault
Not his will
Neither the swine
It’s the pigs on the streets
Who gore at the limbs of the limbs of the limbs of the insane
Desperation pours itself into the moulds of the indecipherable, however contagious
