Again, one thinks of Bacon, those figures in rooms
devouring themselves, each other, the marks
they are made from, paint slapped to canvas like a hand
to flesh; of Bellows, those smears crashing each
against the other, of some scene rehearsed
somewhere deep inside the body and translated
into image, into practice, into play
that is not play. One thinks of Brite
described by Straub: true artists circle
like a bird of prey. One thinks of Gunn.
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