Picasso didn’t title his poetry
some things do not wish to be named
they only want to exist
jumbled
We undress to lay ourselves down in the thistles
there is a deadman hanging in the schoolyard
& we wear halos of lilacs to play in the rain
tell me about the beauty of her breasts, her thighs, her hair, her eyes….
her tears, again
*
Have I ever told you, how much I like you?
weirdo
Poetry for the void 