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Horses, Spears and Light Picasso, your ménage of ruin, caustic with fire that can't consume burns eternally, lighting Hell. Your blazing woman is alive clutching space, still suspended in her sector of place. Center frames amazed horse, dagger tongue, neck twisting, gazing with dazed eyes to electric sunrise crown of thorns igniting the new mechanical world that bombs shepherds and lambs alike. Good horse, nice horse, fragile horse, horse made of newsprint torso torn, speared, light focused on a gaping wound, tender wound, Tears already dry, nine sets of wide eyes, jaws unhinge Silent witnesses rail at heaven. Woman in the window holds a lamp, casts pyramids of light in a mummification of horror. Her massive arm reaches toward the horse always back toward the horse who cradles a dismembered centurion in his huge hoof. Perhaps it is St Longinus who stabbed Jesus at the crucifixion out of compassion, come passion come Passion, but too late. Jesus was dead already, already dead … was still dead. Picasso, pobrecito, you give us horror and eyes fixed in terror at the sky and a woman holding her dead baby and everyone has stigmata all saints good saints nice saints with daggers for tongue. This mural, so grand so avante garde, so very very cubist, burns with terror too late, too late. After the bombing you left your latté on the table of that little café in Paris and thought about Spain, your land, your people and you knew they were burning, all burning, all screaming except the bull who is standing placid and watching it all and I think it is Spain with its ears and its tail reconstructed. And Francisco Franco is gloriously, mercifully still dead. |
Additional Notes:
on contemplating Picasso's mural "Guernica"
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