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selina 3d
i wanted to write like josé olivarez,
to love, plain and simple, and to let
the light in, shamelessly, for all to see

but she wanted a t.s. eliot, maybe a surrealist
portrait, or a picasso to my pissarro, and a tiptoe
around the elephants, for a look into me, endlessly

as if always in search of some deeper, divine meaning,
we parted our ways, but now i no longer feel like me
i have lost my rhythm, though i have not stopped reading

i fall into ignorance; i am called out for perfunctories; so
other than a casual fear of forevers, i now also know: my love
tastes like cheap prose, and an atrophied fondness of writing
one of my favorites from the more recent poems
like pieces of a jigsaw
their faces were joined
interlocked in places
overlapping at others
like Picasso himself
had painted them
with linocut or oils
an imperfect portrait
harmoniously
                  asymmetrical
created by these two
fragmented profiles
lips interdependent
remaining in want
fulfilled for a moment
in this "their moment"
a cubist vision of beauty
not in appearance
or form necessarily
but in what it shows
Nigdaw Sep 2023
Henry Moore, the sculptor
has in his kitchen an original
Picasso
on the wall above the fridge
so every time he made a cuppa
he was reminded of his friend
not a fancy canvas in a frame
but a drawing on A4 sketch pad page
you can imagine the pair of them
discussing art and Henry giving
some small token to Pablo
of his work
and saying you know you should
paint some blue cows
it'll be good for you
you can invent the Emperor's new clothes
as often as you want
if you're a genius
and they would laugh over a glass
of whisky
Pablo went on to give life, of sorts
to his blue cows
oh, and I used to deliver whisky
to Henry Moore's house
I did deliver to Henry Moore, and he has got a Picasso above the fridge.
Thomas W Case Mar 2023
I've been to the crushing
place.
It smells of death, and
spider mums.
Daisy chains dropped,
when the music died.
The lake is murky now.
Clowns roam the street,
looking for carnivals
and meat.
Silly boys still believe
in love and dreams, and
girls that like opera and
giving head.
This world is strange, and
Picasso walks the lonely
avenues, feeding
seagulls' peanuts and paint.
No one blames him.
It's his blue period.
All the while,
an old bent man plays
the guitar.
He smells like camels,
and hope.
arCamm Dec 2020
is it odd that
i'm fixated on the
idea of us being
a Picasso masterpiece-

unorthodox but unapologetic?


- a.r.Camm
unlike anything people have ever seen
unresponsive to the nay-sayers
come from two completely different worlds and color between the lines a bit differently...

what a masterpiece we are, indeed.

No?
Mitch Prax Aug 2020
You are
the kind of art
that would lure Picasso
and be unable to turn away.
You are the masterpiece
that no one could
understand.
when rhymes start poppin'
and beats start flowin'
it's probably a sign
that it's time to get going
maybe just maybe even

((( CAUSE A COMMOTION )))

Now
is the time
where the hero-self
starts bubbling up
which is the time to start stepping
stepping into the presence
stepping out of the prison
and into heaven.


You'll know cause
it be all
effervescing like:
pop, pop, pop

<lite>

as you turn around, have a see
look up and down
at the old me
and let me confess

I don't like what I used to be

at the same time
we should also admit
that we love that man-boy too
cause he was me and he was you

You see:
he was an egocentric
and a pretender
who was never ever ever gonna be a contender
and let's realize
that to linger to long
is how our past pulls us out of song
:::
refuse to lose that ******
now turn front and centre
leg go
and just
trust, trust, trust

Getting wide awake on these energies?
Let's ride these waves (if you please)
now flow effortlessly
through gross machinations
until energies fizzle
and bond to the enormity
of post-structural Western conformity

I figure it's time
to unsettle debts:
Consternation? Plebiation? Colonization?
What about Subjugation?

:::: THE ONLY WAY OUT ::::
:::: SEEMS TO BE WITHIN ::::

What's wrong with the world today
is that we are sleepwalkin'
<through a lucid dream
of our own creation
while considering
life as profane>

Unfurl your flag
let the mystery free
rise up your fist and shout
Pleiades, Pleiades, I can hear you sing
It's time for us Humans
let's bring down that sweet thing

If you can't put your finger on what happens next
it goes something like this:

We've all been waiting for that
lighthouse bringer, that aetheric singer,
the someone who was willing to point the finger
we just didn't think it was going to be a ginger

Go back to sleep and when you awake
Maybe then you'll know
who's the medicine keeper

If you never learned nothing from Pablo Picasso
is that it ain't no fun being like a big *******

Just funnin' Pablo, don't take no offence
love it how you went swinging for fence
every time you woke up
to live in that moment
it's what you saw and
how you saw it
that makes me feel
~ raw, raw, raw ~

I tried to deconstruct your craft:
it deconstructed me
the only way out of that enigma
was to twist myself up into a new reality

And here
I am sitting
my flag unfurled
in my missed fortune
lost in-between
feeling unseen

A look in the mirror reveals a fractured self
a person separated from collective wealth:
Well **** this!

It.Is.Time.For.Health
Written August 2019
Revision February 2024

Spoken word version on Soundcloud: https://on.soundcloud.com/7BdAt

Some of what has been installed within:
Sydney V Nov 2019
There is a melody that sings,
of a dream lost in time, with music
that fits the space  
that can’t be filled.
She is as real to you,  
as the wood in your hands
and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar  
that murmurs melodies about a world
too many understand.
What once was elegant boulevards
in Madrid, are now  
a melodic strain  
of fleeting moments, trapped  
in colorless discontent.
This is an attempt at ekphrastic poetry, which I based of the X-ray version of 'The Old Guitarist" by Pablo Picasso. I highly suggest looking up this image, as it speaks differently than the one that is commonly known, and it may make the poem easier to understand.
Joshua Jackson Aug 2019
Along the grass,beneath the sky
The draconic sun vitrified
The lover figurines.
Flattening them
Adjacent to the surface,
Skin blent in crackly tessellation,
Deforming to fit the sphere,adhering to it's
Wondrous silence.
Frail limbs minute,heart's heavy as whole islands.

Is it not love embodied to lay defined as an image?
To be held as shatterless glass,reflecting it's deity's melting
In progress, 'neath the star that impelled a shelter,
The star that paved their meeting,that overlooked
Their life and death in a predetermined stasis,
The divinity that shimmered underfoot at all times,
The star that held all places of the earth in one.

The figurine lovers, faceless mannikinis
Sentenced to worship forever without a choice,
For prior love, for prior sins,
It matters not--they rot and twist as the Sun's play-dice.
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