Francis Bacon is on fire
Scalding a venal century
Tired of rough trade
And painting his own insides
He watches the human animal
Lazing on his couch smoking
Expecting it at any moment
To rise and eat him alive
It’s a game of chance, he thinks
So let’s throw the dice
He tenses for a fight
Every muscle straining
But the brush strokes defeat him
Drunk on sunrise he falls
On the floor of butcher shops
Chained on all fours
Caged by twisted zinc tubes
Like suppositories of failure
Condoms of denial
Besting the bestial
He will wake at noon
Stain his fingers with pigment
Wondering at how art
Can sometimes smell like breakfast
© shaun patrick green 2014
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