He turned.
Facing the back.
A sliding-point
Was created in
The curtain.
His arse--
Another curtain,
Closing on the
Virgin paper-pulp.
A very white mind,
Very little hair on the surface.
Next to little trace of growth.
A rimless exit
From the historical farts.
Unheeded, unfinished
And yet to be undone.
No Second Coming or
Second Troy for him.
Not even the Anti-Christ.
Just another man, ungiven
Failing to master the image
Like an excrement.
(Trying to verbalize the great painting by Francis Bacon)
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