Warped
Canvas
so
easily erased to mollify fallacious bloodlust.
Francis
Bacon, hedonistic impressionist,
painted
good-looking men;
matadorial
studies of male on male action
transferred
to the sordid dousing of your innocent flame.
Ceremonial
peacock, zoning on his prey,
curious,
post-pubescent in his hip-thrusting ritual.
His
tortured plaything, heaving, almost spent,
unaware
of the impending onslaught strutting two feet away,
pausing,
awaiting that sadistic nod from sweaty Mammon.
Nero,
you never went away.
pierced
with their slender, penile rapier.
Their
special-bred boy.
What
if you refuse?
Deny
them their theatre?
Turn
their blood-smeared table over?
Be
sure.
Be
thorough.
Use
that savage heart they would deflate of its burning glory.
Use
your virgin impaler, your ivory phallus.
Let
them balk to taste the untainted side of
Bacon’s
warped canvas.
Destroy
the sabre-clad man-child
and
live to tell your tale.
for
us.
