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Sunday, February 17, 2013
PICASSO AND ME
On the wall hang my three breasts,
blue arms, blue flowers, some green
weeps from my two noses. In the studio,
I 'm cold, my flesh crawls along
the floor and penetrates the canvas.
He touches all my parts and parts
of me are painted in a geometric scheme.
My gilt, bronzed head aches;
it must have been the wine we drank
last night. (Those five cubed women had
a little too much, too.) He promised
more than paintings and wire constructions,
and I believed his art for art's sake.
Now I stand corrected before his canvas
while he reaches for some red and makes
me fight a dog. I no longer care
how he uses me. I'm just a working girl
trying to keep her job.