Did Picasso see chickens
neck-wrung
flopping awkward in the yard
with bloody beast beats
at the hardened, red, corn-strewn earth,
see those wind blown blood blossoms?
Did he, with pig-faced
leering
lusting voyeurs
see
as Baudelaire?
but once the white
light
eats petal mass
the air must lie quiet
Did he sweat it?
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