For Francis
There is a creature inside me
I can hear her rattled breathing
Echoing deeply with my own
She sees, hears, feels
Along with me except
Brings fire that boils my tissue
I have no choice
But to peel off my own skin
Reveal her swollen and shiny dermis
She betrays my manners
Writhing and screaming
No calluses yet born to allow for hypocrisy
I don’t even look back at that lump of flesh
I am unburdened and feeling the fire
I love her
I will bleed faster
Nerves exposed to sizzle in the breeze
But I am unbidden and seen for what I am
Fat, muscle, tendon, tissue, organ, mucous
No soul to be found, only brain
That coordinates, creates, expels, explores
My skinned human body reveals
There is no comfort, only sting and sinew
I am exposed to grit, to invasion, to agony, to life
I love her
“Portrait of Henrietta Moraes,” 1963, Francis Bacon
sometimesihatemycat 
Poetry is the style of Bacon’s art. Impressive and powerful.
Thank you, you flatter me. 😉