The Unavoidable Truculence of Francis Bacon
In his grasp it is a magic wand,
spurting color, emoting globs of paint,
brushwork like a carnal dream,
scattered clouds on a windy day.
He shivered; repressed thoughts rising like phantoms,
looked askance at the ceiling, willed to the shape of an umbrella,
a stretched mass of raw meat.
Whatever is created, he thinks, can as rapidly devolve.
It is, in this case, a continuing process.
Imagined eyes, reflected musings, skewed observations,
backs twisted, turbulent lips that brush each other with violence.
As if it were his first canvas, he backs off, questioning: the view from a distance.
Identification cannot be denied. Though the need be disingenuous.
He remembers a hospitalized artist, as psychotic as they come,
who would sign his completely abstract canvases with a naturalistic fly.
Perhaps his should be bacon strips on fried eggs.
Imagine tectonic-plate-people,
rubbing erotically until they implode.
Uncover the essence; Only with distortion may one reflect the truth:
Monkey in cage, pope in armchair; put the world in a box; Twist until it screams.
Consider the excitement that others feel, and how they express it:
Modigliani’s elongated universe,
Pollock spattering: drips and dribbles.
Bosch: flying fish with feet, saints flayed in public.
Article two of his constitution, paint what you want:
God Almighty, squatting, sprawled on a toilet.
Contorted figures fucking on a table; a mocker mocked, the poor fool disparaged.
It’s like examining himself in a mirror.