Sunday, July 15, 2012

Francis Bacon Stars in “Our Bodies Are All The Rage”

A key blister-fits noisily in a grievous lockhole pitted hilarious in my stomach. Let’s have a bottle of yr disgusting giggle. In black trench, obviously intensely personal, a man with a black briefcase of sound effects sits green on an untidy bed, fondles a pillow, buries his face in it, spasms.  Journalists flash and snap him on some stairs in daylight.  A man in whiteytights with one sock rubs his own behind and walks from your vision into an unlighted bathroom.  He breaks later, or earlier, fully clothed through a skylight into a mess of photos and paint.  Horrific montage.  Don’t hump what you can’t kill. Bacon in black licks his lips, offers himself in exchange for anything he wants.  Aspiring to become the upright white guy with the briefcase, shirtless, smoking, postcoital scene.  Is there a sphincter without a secret?  If they’re getting on they’re unhappy, that’s what love is.  Drink for the thirst to come.  Bullfighting, boxing, sex unlock the valves of feeling. 

Many quadrupeds stand upright briefly to assess danger or reach food, evolve postprandial strolls and cakewalks. I have an innocence you wouldn’t recognize if it was jammed up yr ass on the end of my severed fist.  What sort of artist would I be with your shame? 

George, we all have nightmares, they can’t be as horrific as life, to survive, to only make a monument of calculations—powerless to help, I, a compulsive joke that no one knew was funny, watch.  Survival, a monument to all calculations, is dependent upon the repeated failure of courage--out into the gymnasium of the city, to cast my rod into the sewer & see what chomping comes up rounded to no beauty without the wound—obsessive light switching, cracked mirrors, gambling, sometimes a man’s shadow is more in the pooled room than he is—is my lover to be my assassin, or I theirs?

This door don’t work goddamnit, 
falls unhinged.  Such is work, an entropic 
pimple of maintaining maintenance.  
Who dat out dere sayin’ who dat in dere 
evertime I say who dat out dere?  It demands a sacrifice.  
The fistula sweats boxed money like a tree 
berserking the sun babooned.  
Out of lids, the tree of life carefully, cacafuego, 
takes its coffee 2 go, but of course, clearly, it spills 
like smolten ichor all over our fingers which cup ourselves like training bras smelling 
of milk sacrificed to skimming every surface free of pain.  Butthurt the hinges 
become tricycles capable of tattooing the ass-fault with a notion of private property.  We find the body difficult to speak.  If soul may look and body touch, 
which is the more less?  VD is a fancy watch. 
He ties a complicated knot near the bay & watches the gulls spoke 
the invisible wheel of our inherited ability to walk 
down the aisles of the supermarket. Careless, 
stupid, and you’re sorry now too.

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