Picasso is still dead

 
 
 
 
my words are splayed,   
a butterfly across  the  
window shield of a  
moving car  
 
why do i do this?  
 
why do I keep  
writing  
when Picasso  
is still dead  
 
there's blood on the  
curtains and the  
toilet is backed up  
and tomorrow will  
be even worse  
because I've lost  
God's phone  
number  
 
my exhaustion is  
three feet thick  
and apathy is a  
short, short rope  
around my neck  
as i wait for Bille  
H. to sing, but  
she won't  
 
because Picasso  
is still dead  
 
the eggs on the  
table are as cold  
as the heart of  
Shiva and hunger  
means nothing  
when colours  
lose their name    
 
old black and  
white news  
reels roll in  
front of my  
eyes  
 
the ghost of  
Mussolini    
still longs for  
the good pasta  
and chianti of  
Rome  
 
and the rape of  
Lucrece floats  
like tiny pieces  
of a Tijuana  
bible in the grimy  
summer afternoon  
 
but it doesn't matter  
 
it doesn't matter  
at all  
 
there are tears in  
my eyes  
and everything is  
blue  
 
because  
Picasso  
is  
still  
dead