deepundergroundpoetry.com

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
buddhakitty
Written by buddhakitty
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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