A Horde

A painting is a horde
Of destructions
Said Pablo Picasso

And I stay here with
Whore's deconstructing
The constructions

The cellar door
Booted in
By an El Paso Jailbird
On a large charge

Finger finding a switch
But no hits

Her photoed tits
Post shower cop off
Hairdryer plugged in
Bunched towel

The kids back from the monkey run
This time I shower
And feed them change

And from under covers
She tells the eldest to straighten
The painting
Ties shoes
Let the hound out

From this bathroom window
My dog chases 'em

She shouts in
The cellar's got guests again
I know they're back

They will chirp
Cheep chirrup.

Padre Nuestro

Dolled and tuned
Check

Through a wind

Bills building unsettled
Sheltered I
Chose sopa and two bottles

The place had started
Saints had listened
To south American rezo's

But for another's sake
They couldn't place
That part on a common map

Two different directions
East arrow faltering
Before a set

This was why they thought
The world was round:

A gate over her décolletage
Fitted in fabrics
Melody puppetry

Those cinema scenes
Where they don't speak
And your head eats itself

I should of skipped the casting
Fired the agent
And gone dressed as a dog

When a chanteuse sees
These soft pupils curl
In a heavy tête

They compose.

Laying on hands (Not of)

Getting sniffed
And seen through glass

The bolt
Or mad surge

Take a stance:

Knees on the floor
Mains together

Virgin Maria?
Santo Antonio?

The weight of waiting.

For That Year

Fitzgerald full stopped at 44
With coco covered mains

Smudged prints on the Princeton Review-

Big Scott got $13.33
The year before

And Ernie
The hardheaded prick
Couldn't make it to his wake

So Francis Scott
In death
You received
What you asked
But couldn't see

That one you had thought
Had fucked off

Fame.