picasso's wives
they were open hearted
witch he couldnt live with/out
they left something
flammabull
a lump of charcoal,
a string of oiled candlewick
a molotov cocktail
in fact every parting
was an epiphany of sorts
made of steamclouds sizzling
rising from iron tanks, not
just some flame
hissing in the rain
a settled not so fine final deal
left on an anvil of undefined space
heavenly cold and planely steel
there in the studio, next to the wagonwheel
now whenever he unbuttons lace
he sees not only half a face
the other half may be
some place he cannot see
pablo will never forget those girls
~ a phantompink haunting rises n swirls ~
