Francis Bacon, the painter not the miscreant, was one, if not the best, religious painter of the twentieth century. Turnkey heads and stopped up rectories, no two images alike. With an abattoir’s eye for slaughter and mincing, Bacon reinvented how we see the human form, formless and minced up into oedipal pieces, flocculent skin; a polyglots reaction to monotheistic despotism. No two cockfights the same, the one always pecking and folding into the other, creating a bloody fucking mess of it. Now that’s art, nothing less will ever do. It’s still raining like a robber outside, gunmetal barrel gray, cumulous, skulking and monotheistic. I wrote a childish piece of crap for the Norman Bethune College newspaper when I was a sophomore with equally sophomoric philosophical ideals and all the symptoms of middle-stage alcoholism. Something I called ‘Rain Thoughts’, a painfully immature recasting of the Nietzschean concept of the Herd Mentality rife with castration innuendoes and Oedipal out you frontoes. What have I to say for myself you might ask, not a damn fucking thing, that’s what? So fuck off and be done with it.
The Shrike
the shrike hooks frogs
and small birds
on pike and spit
flesh gritting from bone
a cruel Carpathian custom
impaling kin
on thistle and thorn
The Shrike
the shrike hooks frogs
and small birds
on pike and spit
flesh gritting from bone
a cruel Carpathian custom
impaling kin
on thistle and thorn
Gödel’s Wristwatch
a sclerotic mind inhibits
the simplest of calculus’s
subtractions and minuses
(Gödel’s wristwatch)
in the topknot of my skull
Anvil of the Hips
when the hammer hits the base
of the spine
the anvil of the hips chimes
Metempsychosis
metempsychosis
the transmigration
of hogsheads
a sclerotic mind inhibits
the simplest of calculus’s
subtractions and minuses
(Gödel’s wristwatch)
in the topknot of my skull
Anvil of the Hips
when the hammer hits the base
of the spine
the anvil of the hips chimes
Metempsychosis
metempsychosis
the transmigration
of hogsheads
