With the blue face of Picasso,
he grabs all the strangely dismembered and distorted deprivations,
pressing them like wild flower stencils onto the canvas before him…
His sausage fingers rolling up his collaged carnage cigar… placing it to his clay mouth -
Looking at the skyscrapers outside his house
“I do this for my paradise country…”
On a dizzy permutation of this ferocious routine; he realises - nothing fits -
“I’m a preacher in my own ****…”
But the apple is sweeter because of me…
The pear trees are weaker…
And at least we lost their weeping wisdom
and childish victimisation…
remember…
“We make the system - ” art is meat, art is mickey…
And we’ve shrivelled their fruit to display in exhibitions, give to our children; and to flavour our unique trappings of meat certification…
