Self-Portrait as Francis BaconIvy Kleinbart
The confused jaw circles back on itself to repeat all it’s gotten wrong— blueshadowed and wrung, a thin screen of blood brushed over the eyes and mouth— asymmetry worn into the face, an error of bone— To whom should I apologize? To which earnest body that didn’t make it out? didn’t make it in? When the angels touched me, my ribs dropped out of my blouse— I blindfolded my erection and drew a smiley face on it, then made it scream like an animal in a grassy field. I wanted to stay that way forever, but they pinned a carnation to my lapel and stuck me on an imperial throne where I felt oddly interrupted. They electrocuted me there— shocked my shut mouth awake, as in dreams, where no sound escapes—
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