- - When I see a Picasso painting, I'm always reminded of my poetic opinion concerning the soul and the meaning of that strange disfigured style of his: He was capturing the effects of sadistic violence, painting bright colored beaten images to show the mind of a killer. He was a winner, the man who could pick up prostitutes, seduce them, fuck them, and beat them silly. He may have been witty, I might never know. I do know his paintings were strange, and made me think about the joy of killing. He caused me to experience the pleasure of bashing flesh to a deep purple bruise. He showed me what a man sees when he has nothing to lose. He showed me the beauty of the animal that is caged within man; the pure consciousness of survival and the elimination of the weak. This man was damn good, being able to speak like a poet, with colors and not words, a brush and no pen.