#picasso
There was a young man who could paint
He was not known for using restraint
He'd paint things he likes
Such as **** women on bikes
They're good. But Picasso they ain't
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 5:57 PM UTC
(Pre: Guernica 1937 – Baghdad 2003–Ukraine 2022)
The horse is Guernica’s, Baghdad’s, Kyiv’s shriek.
The bull is the state, the shroud, the briefing’s lie.
My thumb recalls the blast, the psychic breach.
A net of needles—Mariupol’s sky.
The tower’s hair is steel, in shards, it cries,
Spinning the drained grape of work, the question: Why?
More the bitten grasp than the prey’s demise.
The memory-dog climbs the oak where rubble lies,
Showing what we knew, with our averted eyes.
We write, and so we participate, devise
A witness from the story we revise.
That we love and suffer makes the silent shriek rise.
A horse is a horse. A bull is a bull.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 3:36 AM UTC
I think of you
Lying on a sandy beach
A light breeze kisses my face
The sea is calm and still
I see you on the clouds in the sky
I see you on the air, hovering over the sea
I see you lying next to me
Yet I know you are very far away
I hear your laughter loud and clear
Your body emits a fragrance
Fresh as the scent of roses and jasmine
I can feel your presence next to me
Yet I know you are very far away
You are a portrait on the surface of the sea
A painting of vivid colours
A painting as only Michelangelo could make
So vivid, so real
Yet so far away you are
Ever in my thoughts you are, ever will remain
My Dream Girl, My Dream Girl
I have never seen you, yet I know you
Like I have lived with you, all my life
I see you so clearly that I could paint you
My Dream Girl, My Dream Girl
Alas, I am no Picasso or Rembrandt, MyLove
Only A Simple Soul From Down Under
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 6:56 AM UTC
what is our purpose, if not to help,
why do we say these things, when they're not felt,
so focused on our next big break,
we've forgotten everyone it takes.
not meant to sit alone, meant to stand & test,
for those who refuse, for those who can't,
our helping hands only help so much,
set up against social norms & Picassos,
left to bludgeon, burgeon & bargain,
still only to be second best,
what Einstein life is this,
not one we lose to win.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 4:09 PM UTC
Evening by Evening
Blue Midnights
WithIn Rose Midnights
She's more like Picasso
And Surreal as Moonbeams
With Tamborines that Shimmer
Like Waves, Doves that like Candles Sigh
Ballerinas that like Summer Roses Sway,
For a Love forever and a day
And Sunflowers whose petals
Like Nightingale wings and jazz dreams
Sweet WithIn the VineYards
Of the heart
I've Loved her from the very start
She loves to Be the Art
Her Beauty is more than it seems
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
Can't you see
the dark side?
Bright like the moon
Consider the facts. Just
For the art of it.
What's in his style?
side by side by side
"Can't you see it"
Its a hexahedron
with an ism
How modern
is modern art?
This abstract form
forms from subtraction
"Today, the truth is
on display."
- Sandile
Aug 11, 2024
Aug 11, 2024 at 10:00 PM UTC
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
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:13 AM UTC
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
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 1:04 PM UTC
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
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 5:22 AM UTC
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.
Mar 24, 2023
Mar 24, 2023 at 4:47 PM UTC
is it odd that
i'm fixated on the
idea of us being
a Picasso masterpiece-
unorthodox but unapologetic?
- a.r.Camm
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC
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.
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 4:51 AM UTC
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 out of prison
and into presence
You'll know cause
it be all
effervescing like:
pop, pop, pop
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 forget this!
It Is Time For Health
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 10:36 PM UTC
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.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
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.
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
each morning when she brushes her makeup on her face
she feels like picasso painting a masterpiece
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
The paintings!
The rain has destroyed the art.
The colors drip like blood from the canvas,
The shapes mix together and blur with the meaning.
No one could plan this.
The memories!
The shame has broken the heart.
My honesty crumbles each time I’m reminded,
Their brush strokes fade under new ones,
Like no one minded.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
PICASSO where do you draw the line!
disjointed reasons
etched across my mind
a
proverbial t hou ght
o n
hinge
what say you my man - so abstract!
rejoicing voices
love s hare s bisecting angels
and pleasure di verge across
p o in ts
a fissure in creativity moves!
you c r a w l e d out
punching real ity in the jaw
shattering concepts --
creating new law!
:: - ::
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
Introducing Picasso and Nunez aka ANu Picasso a pair of L.A. poets and painters coming to a gallery near you.
Our first big gig will be at the Nuetra Gallery and Museum on Glendale Blvd. in Silver Lake coming up in September.
Come check out East and West Balanced, it will surely be an art show you'll always remember.
Curated and coordinated by the one and only, Dulce Stein, Dulcepalloza 2018 guarantees a good time.
Just another ditty on who we are, this is a poem my partner Picasso put out:
BALANCED
He is the torch
I am the white
He is the dark
I am the light
We don't impress
to be blessed.
We're blessed
to impress
Hate us or love us
But don't love to hate us
We're the Ying and
the Yang of this Earth
Both with the
same day of birth
He is the east
and I am the west
But together we're
simply the best.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?
Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.
Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:52 AM UTC
A tortured artist’s muse, an abstract concept that could never truly be defined. Though, they tried. Aspiring Picasso’s came like passerby’s, setting up their easels, trying to capture the essence of a moment. An ever changing scenery in constant flux. A single clip of time, forever evading the masterpiece. There was only ever a beginning, as frustrations with the unrelenting storm tore the portrait to the ground with each passing breeze. They failed to see the beauty in starting each day with a blank canvas, always determined to brush every stroke perfectly into place before the sun set. The love for the view was lost, so desperate to embody it completely they forget to appreciate it entirely, as layers of color paint a picture of indifference. But tell me Pablo, would you label the bird as callous for wanting to leave the branch...or would you gaze with the all the wonder of life watching it flap its wings?
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
*My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.*
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC