If you don’t come to undress me with a firm hand, my nude figure weeping covered by night, covered by thick paint, how can I ever burst through that stupid crust? How can I break tomorrow out of my list of you? You locked me in a freedom which can’t pronounce ‘us’! My mouth has been painted on, to the strokes of heaven, banished, tooth grinding, by an anonymous pencil which you handle yourself. My name is dead within your box of clouds, grass and flesh. It's smeared over me. Distance and saying your goodbyes is the horny metaphysics of men who keep their love hot and moisted on a far away place, and that’s how they boil their days. Leaving, slamming the doors, is the pure melodrama of men who have swallowed their lovers and only make religion of their swelling flesh. I know these two, they are alone, but for each other they have time, the same, but on different grounds. Like the shores of the same heavenly wide stream. In that water they lie mirrored seperately, watching the passing, passing the watching and no man knows what sailed inside them. Listen to me, Francis Bacon, from the hurting that I am, I have no part!
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