Self-portrait, a poem

Self-portrait

An image jars, and looking up from your book,

You catch yourself, unawares, staring back,

Lurking behind the kitchen window,

Not quite a stranger, not quite someone you know:

Someone outside, someone held in the dark;

Someone deformed by shadow, yet stark;

Disfigured, but mumbled rather than spoken;

Brushstrokes dissolving: a portrait by Bacon.

Half the face is missing (an unsigned caricature), 

The head tilted back, the mouth cleaved,

Turned down, toothless – a chevron of torture,

But the features whisper where they should scream.

Something atavistic in the cant of the skull - simian;

The black eyeholes watching, assessing you as prey;

Who’s outside and who’s in: Neanderthal? Homo sapiens?

Found out, you’ve been hunted down by your own Dorian Gray. 


Click here to see some of Bacon's pictures