Picasso Pastiche, George Freek

She looked at me with her third eye,
the one nobody could see.
This somewhat bothered me,
as plump women on a beach tossed a crippled star.
Then they played their blue guitar.

An egg is rolling to the sea,
debouching in heavy traffic.
And now the weather is turning ripe.
But blind fish don’t mind.
Because their souls, of course, are also blind.

And what can apples know
of the taste of wine and from where
such a ritual derives?
But we know less than we say.
Oh yes, civilization has many useful lies.

Monsieur Vollard, you look nude
without your demoiselles! Smiling,
your cat sits with your tongue in his lap.
But what the hell! You’ve done your job,
not wisely, perhaps, but… oh, well.