A.G.O. Whistle Stop - Time, Eyes Ears, Mouths and Years: Meet Earnest and Earnestine, still in Love.

Picasso's women all have normal breasts, like their feet;
One slightly larger than the other; slightly lower; slightly higher:
Lopsided, imperfect, aureola all over, interspersed with jiggling.
Real Jello, perplexing and preposterous, and pensive,
Pert and pouting ....sighing tiredly.

"Breasts don't sigh", you say. We have never argued this point before. There have been far too many others which seemed more relevant:world hunger, your haircut, me insisting on wearing a bra. My face flames, remembering the wicked words.

Then, seeing your lie, hanging in midair, you follow the sound.

Wind has passed between us, air shared, bettered, slightly bluish,
Bubbling and blown into larger glass versions of itself....
like breasts.

"They're not like cows", you say, seriously, searching. "I feel sorry, that bulls have no hands."

You are a silly man, and deserve to be punched, but aren't. This is Woodstock wishing, after all, and you have simply regressed into simplistic terms again,
momentarily. Besides, it's lovably honest, and unaffected - and earnest, like you.
And you have doctor's hands when you place them on breasts: reverent, exquisite, painting them on to themselves again, like a Creator.

All that pre-talk of hookers has made me nervous, standing so close, staring at the
shapes in the frame, with you blowing in my ear like that.

"Be subtler, dammit", I murmur, staring at the painting, ignoring you.

"You're far too short to speak like that", you say, mildly, kissing the back of one of my earlobes. "You're a terrifying woman". Then you smile, placing your arm gently about my waist, and turn your face towards the breasts again.

You've just noticed they have eyes in them. Picasso reigns.

The Spoils of War

 True it is, that Rage feeds Evil, 

And all the appetites that urge a man to live are twisted into darkness, in the doing, 

Till even hunger, mined into a Pit of Wound, and tossed a weapon maggot into the seething chasm, feeds upon Itself, 

While the gold of busy Death is smelted with Men's bones. 

No light enters here; no blinking morning birds; no misted hills awash with greyed and tremulous dew,

Cooling the molten shrieks of maw and groan. 

The dry and rock-strewn ground is churned with builder's dust, 

And Men's "blood of endless new bloodings" stirs a grim and writhing mix of fluid and stone. 

 No corner anchor here,

Fulcrum-rich with echoed song, and storied awe,

Only grinding steel, and teeth, and flash, and shriek, silent in the ink, 'till even the canopy of Heaven

Would hide its True Star from Death's Jealous Touch, 

And Shroud the exploding fingers of steel with 

Omnipotent, Relentless, Defiant Tears of 

Tumult's Absence, in 

Mute, "Scream painted transmit", Celestial chiding, at the 

Doings of Men.