Francis Bacon

Always in these faces I've been found, these dry dreams in which pain burrows. Each day inside these walls I spend myself until empty of myself I sing like a bell I sing like a bride of Christ. But always when I sleep the human snail inscribes its trail of meat beneath my skin so when I wake I wake remade. Never mind what the clean say. Let them scream all they want. Let them scream through the bars in my head. I am the matter. I am the only subject. * Our story is this simple, always. Rented beasts tethered in a room where the king lies dead intestate. There's no one to say whose we are. Just blood on the floor, his ring on a plate, our ingrown hopes we cast away like hands we've lost the feel for. * At you sir I thumb my eyes my seeing wounds in which pain-burrows I swear I am never found wanting.