CHAOS BREEDS IMAGES

Response to Francis Bacon’s retrospective at the Gallery of NSW, Sydney.

 

francis-bacon-studio

 

His paintbrush fell crossed-legged with silent lumps of flesh lying dormant on the ground; boxed-in desires rest on a chair with muscles smearing laughter heavy on rib-caged shoulders. Black and blue shadows wear purple hearts in the dark, faceless choked mirrors reveal crumpled photographs distorting private courting chances on the brink of pink accidental success. Compassion and despair, dark blue isn’t black dressed to impress depressed white spots of life in the eye of a lonely star.

Triptych witches stitch broken-in lover’s bruised palettes, as uneducated pretty thieves dressed in peace entering distorted inner-self rhetoric sing the wrong person’s song. Yellow aura shoulders rise fragile through informal dormitories lined with white divine prizes touching silent lips. Black-tipped maroon ears licked fear near faceless faces racing baboons devouring noble liquid flesh off the back of unprimed canvas. Untitled dogs roaming Roman green scenes gold-framed, purple, orange & red four legged babies beg for unperfected tests.

 

francis-bacon-paintings-2

 

Red tracked sculptures left dead unfed against lust’s walls. Yellow handles open tall locked doors to read foul-mouthed obituaries. Lover’s quarrels involved violent drug addicts in the attic emphatically provoking choked broken brushes in rushed strokes. White pools of faceless fat-legged fools swipe carnal stripes down hideous beauties. Tuned muted flutes sit heavy in un-rendered hands left bloodied by diminished likeness. Unfinished shawled friendship covered pale blue spaces in the news broken yesterday’s tomorrow.

Informed lawns spawned alcoholic grey-haired pornographic pawns. Strangers can’t see each other’s ignored explicit spheres, illicit skin pitted against pale agony-toothed skies. Pleasant smells studied terror sucking nipples with eyes closed in rows. Swooping nostalgia sent pink-purple friends hung together sealing eyes revealed. Blended-blue curtained dwarf lovers left dead on the bed holding sleeping pills on the first day he bled.

 

francis-bacon-writing

 

Retrospective collected hollow-bodied lovers cascading through broken darkness into human rubble, rest-in-pink beige grey head finally draped on strange unrelated shadows where there’s no life left where once life slept. Arrow pointed to open wound theory acts as circled cuts locate bandaged knees weeping. Bullfight poetry laments departed death of a matador laying eggs in the womb.

Atheism died in the arms of Catholic nuns, convulsing lilac weight of gravity held in cavities of colour. Framed shame deepens dripping burnt ink in old techniques unlearnt. Arms leave aerosol-seated freaks seeking pink shadows stripped naked who can never revisit chance. Naked sublime voids avoid drowning in midnight oceans, frozen nameless moons illuminating broken dead dogs fade walking unaided. Disconnected black devil’s pets predict screaming terror futures in monochrome blues at the end of the line where chaos breeds images.