Francis Bacon’s Studio

William Blake’s head Rears through the chaos There is a photo of a Zebra carcass, Gracefully rotting on the floor There are brushes, Plonked in jars like dried, splayed, flowers There are paint rags, rainbowed trays, Mammoth brushes eager to be up and doing A ceramic bowl as a palette 7,000 items, all exactly transplanted Suspended animation of a painter’s life space Including: 570 artist books and catalogues 100 slashed canvases 1,300 leaves torn from books 2,000 artist materials 70 drawings Correspondence, magazines Paint spattered furniture Vinyl records. The walls, doubling as palettes And an untitled unfinished self portrait Found on the easel after Bacon’s death A canvas holds a circular outline Made by a dustbin lid Bare light bulbs hang from sinister flexes No shades, glaring, stark Sinister echoes of the Furies Daemons, Disaster, Drink His father’s grooms horsewhipped him as a child For being different, dressing in woman’s clothes He grew to love rough trade and burglars, The fringe men of Society No wonder his Pope screamed Popes should scream against The victimization of the not-the-same