She lent across and right there kissed his neck
in the queue to see Francis Bacon.
What the heck?
These chances are there to be taken.
I was standing behind her behind
as he gently patted her there.
He seemed very kind.
She had soft brown hair.
We entered the gallery of pain,
of Bacon’s suffering and death,
love’s falling as acid rain,
twisted faces and terminal breath.
Was that them I saw in the room,
Bacon’s truth sliding easily by?
His love starts in the womb,
is born, distorts then runs dry.
‘Bacon’s art is the work of a genius,’
the guide said as she led us about.
‘Just look how he’s painted that penis!’
Indeed – bleeding, erect – not in doubt.
I looked for the couple to see:
any effect on their easy affection?
There they were – holding hands he and she
paying torture and death no attention.
Will today’s soft kiss and their touch
transform in the years ahead?
Bacon doesn’t offer them much:
but then, he’s dead.
