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Thursday, July 28, 2011

Picasso Doesn't Do Much For Her

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

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