On Bacon's Three Studies of Lucian Freud

On Bacon’s “Three Studies of Lucian Freud”

On one end, a man
With drawn, mercurial lips
And a fang of shock black hair
Reclines against a faux pattern
Brass-balled bed, looking down
Amongst the newspaper debris
Scattered across the floor of the studio.
He balls his fists in a posture
That wonders silently, protesting
Yet allowing this study to go on.
His knees settle into the fold
Of himself, hardened form
And muscle and tobacco smoke.

And on the other? A structure of paint,
A salami-strewn chasm of flesh
Imposed upon a wicker chair
With the bedframe kept as background
To shade the mess, this thing
A perceptible ache.
Ash-blue khakis hiked at the shins
Displays the supple pink skin, and there—
The shoes, the socks, blasted into space
For appropriate measure. One terror
Of a jawbone sticks out, popped
From its opal socket, made
To bleed through the canvas

And coming back from obliteration
To peer sidelong at the artistry,
I cannot help but ask for proof of life—
A sign of exposure, a touch,
Some presence amidst these shapes;
For then all they are is shapes
And consequence, and without history, event,
Time makes nothing last.
Always we look and see, and wonder
And the answer is silence: a glance,
Both yes and no, arbitrarily.
And it goes on like this all day
The Italian cars out in the French streets
Screaming and bleating 'til night's
Terrific inhabitants come out.