Poetry » Mark Howard »


Fuck Francis Bacon

A Structure;
the sound, stable stretch,
of surrounding systems and subtle hues.

A Brush;
the bruised bristles bleeding,
within belief of bleak aesthetics and fantasy.

Not a soul understands,
the way the canvas does;

soaking and drinking,
the aggravation of each stroke and streak,
until the work is done;

and the highest bidder gains a wall ornament,
for dust and descendants to discard,

the Structure,
the Brush,
the Vision,

the End.


is an admission,
of the inability,
to make the hard choices.


      We go for the easy pussy,

instead of,
the hard problems,
that boil over,
and scald the skin,
we have grown so thick,
like walls that are impenetrable,

to emotion,
            to self,
                        to self-reliance.

Like an addict, I fall into cheating,
because I need a fix,
that I don’t always deserve.

A familiar touch from unfamiliar lips,
                  bank account,
and approach,

because, in essence, We all Cheat.

We just don’t Cheat in the same way.


I feel like we were all objects once.

a Trophy that someone bled and sought for;
an Item that someone treasured above all things;
a piece of history to never be forgotten,

until one day, when the metal began to rust,
the silver started to tarnish,
and our “champion” “won” more Trophies,

and we were forced to share…

share our time, our space, our bed, our belongings, our beliefs… and our bodies.

Now, we are more like Ribbons,
pinned on someone who discards them,
into the rest of the stack,
where the refuse accumulates,
and no one mentions it anymore…

…until it’s time to move on, find a new sport, change the locks, bury the past, and fill the holes.

And We all lie there, in tattered formations,
wondering if We were ever good enough,
if We were important,
if We amounted to anything,
if We were an award,
or just a footnote in the book of life?

We don’t talk about it anymore.

We just take our medication and remember the cold shivers,
of hands caressing our bodies,
and mouths that preached and praised,
yet, here We are.

Just trophies.

Just trophies.

Just trophies.