after Francis Bacon
A woman, unscripted, she bends into her
flesh; fidgeting, squirming, contorted:
As if the molten-metal from the mould
of the swastika
it was being intravenously fed into her
While Satan, upon his sunbed, grins.
Arms pinioned, the epoch is suspended.
From the ripped-open gut spills the
detritus of the century:
fragments of a failed despot's
speech, a bishop's vertebra,
- A crucifixion also begins to stop.
Two journalists, at lectern, in court:
idly discuss the cricket game or the
"I am moving" cries the Nazi behind them,
"back through the death-throes of my sins!"
- God, out of frame, indifferent:
- force-feeding him the ashes
- of the survivors of Auschwitz.