Picasso

I cannot tell you when I fell in love
with his machismo, his maddening
sense of overwhelming self importance
but I did
like a school girl I traced the lines
of his face old before I ever
slid sickeningly slick out of my
mothers womb
Her lidded eyes half drunk with passion
like he on a late night lay dreaming
through glass bottles that fractilated the
world into
shards of color and light a visual clink
cluttered clash that all drunks hear
so we come to stand in a cold museum
warm fire
his thoughts still stirring our ashes
to kindle wide eyed the languid length
or our limbs against one another
matchsticks
burn the world tonight as my fingers
wish for my brushes and the sound of
his voice talking dirty spanish in my
waiting ear.