I painted a pitted brick wall whitewashed it with a sable round brush size 0 blotting out my memories in every rough pit a map of hell surely torture and death can’t last forever grinding lime tasting sweat snowblind
I pushed a chain up a hill on my knees through factory fresh gravel comes a point when your blood is just blood pain however the brain makes it sting anew breathtaking part of your soul extracted out your nose
I lost a hundred pounds another dream shed fat and skin while the knife spat and sizzled grieving as I flenced myself my own whale shouts of outrage echoing from bare walls once white now spattered with human tones
Poet’s Note – This is the artist Francis Bacon, not the philosopher.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
(1) It was a mix of demons. Honour killing to save the damaged inside. You were found in lotus position, hands tied, buried in a hole. (2) The twin plants: god and goddess of procreativity were shedding trumpet-shaped pink flowers.
11 There is living after death, there is death before life, Ordinary living which is in scrambles of destituteness, Destituteness of idealism, of knowledge meaningful, of utter candidness. Dull realities of weeds, weeds of rampant ignorance, averment Of void words,
calm and quiet the sun breaks the branches creating shields of light and shadow all the creatures in the woods come to the feast the bears brought wine wolves, brought a pie the squirrels, brought a side dish from an