where Picasso went

few people knew where Picasso went
but he certainly had a drink in hand
on his last day in southern France!
by his comfortable bed stood a skinny flower
dressed like a woman,
her hair falling to her shoulders,
her garden smile growing without weeds
near the tall blue mountain
by his old chateaux.
he kept his steady eyes
intense like a Spanish dream
of a brave matador's gaze:
they were full and round and strong
and massively inquisitive,
but they wouldn't reveal any secrets,
and he had a lot of secrets,
including many from inside the small beach front cabana,
where a girl was often down on her knees,
while he was never down on his luck.
the frequent winds there spit salt across the sea;
he watched a small kite aloft in the breeze,
its' string held by a young, soft hand,
a hand he would often use to comfort himself.
if he made a mistake,
cigarette smoke would spiral
around his studio easel,
shaman-like, chanting steadily,
while paint fell on his canvas.
he was always painting,
inside his head and in the still air of a busy room
where lines and colors formed;
a flat breast grew full and voluptuous;
pubic hair vibrating as though gasping for breath.
a penis embracing the large feminine nose,
a green face scowling like a difficult woman in shades of fracture;
a circus clown juggling memories,
a cube without ice melting inside a summer apartment,
a town crying for sanity during the bombing,
lovers looking for love without restraints,
painting over his mistakes,
painting his death mask,
painting his life.
he took a full sip from the glass,
after having cried
at the thought of his mother's funeral.

drink to me, he said.