Art and Poetic Prose
Picasso’s abstract paintings fill my head with fascinating narratives, he ran the females in his pack with wounds, he should have felt and dealt with when he was young.
But then painted them with feelings of mastery and omnipotence, his favorite model was a pretty ballerina named Olga, his girl in the mirror.
I hear her begging to be space between Picasso’s ears, I can see her elongated limbs and bulging breasts reaching out for him.
Pride guides his hands around her 22-inch waist. I see him loving his women separately but tasting them all as one, turning his backside to each after a cataclysmic orgasm, he painted torn pieces of himself in blues, reds, and yellows.
Girl Playing the Tambourine
Bazooka, I see Picasso’s done it again, painting Olga dancing and playing the Tambourine, a collage of many sensual parts, a mystery to explore. She’s dancing to an unheard melody in Picasso’s head; it’s magical getting to know her in a cubic sense, even though she looks kind of odd to us. Picasso thinks she’s perfectly mapped. A massive tragedy of parts, recalling them with an insanity, he never-ever sought, He could do nothing more or less, then to reconstruct his women as he knew best.
I caught the glimpse and gleam of Picasso’s women in my mirror, each Invading my soul with curiosity, sadness and fear, all of us like stubborn toddlers, sitting in high chairs, waiting to be fed life, a little excited, a little not. We travelled with dark glasses of misconception and misery, our faces wet with sweat and tears, our egos plump, each of us moving from one world to another. Our hands cutting the air into magic masks of unforeseen circumstances we hide behind, each of us craving and loathing the pain of the perpetual wounds of living and loving.
Picasso gathered five sisters of prostitution into a collage of strategic cubes of memento mori, the death rattle of jilted lovers, painting them as savages, with angular and disjointed bodies. Some hiding behind masks, while his hand-eye coordination painted them all into the future with ambiguous affection.
Van Gogh & Friends
Oh, Starry Night, there is beauty, bravery, and achievement in Van Gogh’s Starry Night, splendidly swabbing his canvas tenderly, taking his own sweet time, while gifting each air pocket imaginary wings fashioned from a cool night light, while the small village slept below, he educated his eyes by surfing the clouds, we educated ours by studying the merits of his lines of of composition, form and color, trying to lock in his essence, with his soul hanging like a tadpole man in each artistic rendering. where we go to breathe in the darkness of all the idiocy.
Terror and Mercy
I feel like I’m disappearing, thought Picasso, one painting at a time, I’m drawing on empty, too many paths and detours, followed and unfollowed, an agitation blowing through me, like a cruel wind, between the rapture of his brush and the dread of being misunderstood, between groans and grunts, and a thicket of lingering passions, hand-picked, polished and packed for delivery at my door by unseen hands. These things I do not profess to understand, my life pieced together laboriously with terror and mercy.
Aphrodite & Venus and all Want-to-Be Marilyn Monroes
Some call us man’s first cultured pearls, goddesses first birthed from castrated genitals, our all-seeing eyes of violet blue with traces of emerald green, and our hair is like soft wet straw, with traces of wildflowers. We are known as special tongue-n-cheek divas, which are sexually implicit phenomena and the repository of many a mortal’s dreams, man has tried to carve our beauty into blocks of naked stone. With a lot of arousals left behind, almost like flesh, only cold instead, even though our hands are penniless and empty, they are filled with man’s destiny to love and be loved, so similar to the divine in repose, we lay upon rose petals in our scalloped shells nibbling on poppies, reading poetry and singing songs of love.
Drama, Drama, Drama
The Ballet of the Cats
By day they sit and stare in unison, a communal group, observing, waiting, it is their job, height obsessed, achieving lift-off, sailing like pieces of air-blown tissues, twitching tails, piercing neon eyes, hissing and spitting in rage. Their operatic screams take the night,
cameling their backs with purpose, one mouse in seven escaping. Their mystery is prevailing as rumors suggest they see through reincarnated eyes, cats by day, and Tigers by night, on stage, on call, perhaps eternally.
There’s nothing as sweet as falling for a little girl in her gardenias world, she loves the sight of us sprawling all over the earth, pink, white and yellow, some pods pierced through the heart by a stem so green, always singing, and dancing side by side, dreaming of an amorous encounter, when the winds and rains come, we are set free to take the ride of our lives, we sigh for some understanding, some permanence, we don’t have much time to philosophize about our fate, we’ll all be back again the following spring, blanketing all around, where we first and last touched the ground.
The Boy and his First Dirty Word
His first dirty word tore at the sweet meat of his brain, while he explored many feet of earth, and everything that really matters, he was like most boys with years behind him of chasing squirrels, playing video games and pushing music inside his head while putting everything else off till tomorrow, glued to the side of his ear was a shiny snail whispering, go for it, go for it, and it made kissing sounds, as he jumped from hole to hole, he would be a man when his twelve organs were in place, and his brain stem was unencumbered by logic.
It is a dilemma how we are always digging in-between sand traps, cutting us off at the waist, from the triumph of imagination over intelligence, playing hide-and-seek, always on the go, here, there and yonder, forgetting to appreciate the poetry and creative expression, kindred spirits turning disorder into order and turning repressed thought into attendant emotion, and ambiguous words into dreams. Us willy-nilly crabs becoming spontaneous artists building elaborate series of defenses lest their sublimated emotions and motivations come disturbingly into consciousness.
A Cowboy’s Moonlight Ride
A Virgin Moon shining particles of our forefathers, ageless and weightless, a movie camera, Intake, Focus, Flash-On, an aged Cowboy and a lot of Bull embedded deep within a plush, green, still-life hemisphere, partly missing & partly seen, Intake, Flashback, Intake, callused palms and aching thighs, booming echoes of bulldozing hoofs, the unruly duo becoming the burial site for the roots of Dandelions. Intake Flashback, Intake!
To me, more poetry than prose. Very well done and entertaining. Thanks Joyce White.
Thank you Steve L. Howard (Curmudgeon). I think this might have been our beginning connection as work partners and friends. Curmudgeon has many of his poems as well as mine in my new book, Love, Rhyme & Reasons. Check our book out at https://www.facebook.com/joyce.white.9615. See ya there!