Picasso Doesn't Do Much For Her
it is from across rooms of perspective
inside twisted chambers of the mind
her face like spoon fed butter scoops
dripping past eyes elongating into noses
her body like turning angles becoming blocks
building out the fantasy play of light upon shadow
her angular teeth grip a thorny rose that pricks her
head bent upon squared neck dropping to buttocks
separating cleavage from fish and beach with ball in play
with ball in motion as dance is kinetic to abuse of love
of self of indulgence of grandiose scale of cognac
of absinthe of blue moods against green vengeance
with disfigured fairy tales morphing into lost vistas
never seen by the eye of an old woman's cataracts
hardly felt inside the bronzed goat vaginal walls
as war rages outside on the inside all the time
it is injustice, all of it, from the fly in the ointment
to the napalm dropped on mama and babe innocence
the contorted eyes of terror open mouthed kissing
death as if embrace were only meant for mistress
as wives got the loneliness of it all in cascades
of flamenco bulls running into matadors on bloody hooved sand
written off as salon after salon becomes meaningless pedigree
as if the wisdom of castles had left anything less than magic
for the love, for the woman, for the light etching contrast
into prism into lust into temper into explosion into work
it all falls away into emotions left like a high water mark
into a lifetime of perspective reaching out for a better
point of view against an overrated misunderstanding
these balls are made of brass to last a little longer
not really so much beautiful as useful to angels
gone blind and now they feel their way back to heaven
alone, how every saint must feel in silent visage
waiting for it all to come back together again
just lay down naked on the bed in the
morning sunlight as it comes through
the bedroom window
I want to see you for who you are
less clearly
