SurVision Magazine
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An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Four
KEVIN HINKLE
Paintings in the Style of Francis Bacon by Francis Bacon
I've met myself coming round the
bend and coming
round the bend, I've met myself. Direction
doesn't matter. I know when to expect it—never
in a mirror—always head on, not necessarily straight.
I still have not mastered self-expression.
Recently I noticed the floors hadn't been swept.
Furniture and boxes had halos announcing
their importance. Intimidated, I lost my train
of thought.
How can I improve on holiness when I've got a direct
line to existential hell? I get caught in texture and don't even
question colors. After a moment lost, I return
to my brushes and canvases.
I'm told a Francis Bacon is unmistakable. I'm told
that Francis Bacon is irreplaceable. If only there were
fortune cookies so that I could add "in bed." But I spend
too much time worrying
my sex life has been a ripped canvas, repaired,
repainted. I'm not the only one who knows that Francis
Bacon is not so extraordinary. Only mangled images
from my imagination play out on canvas, but they aren't
'in bed.'
The days pass, and I paint my nightmares in thick layers.
I'm praised but don't know why.
I Am a Rothko Painting
Canvas stretched across a frame, rough and dry.
I'm a Rothko painting—deep red,
brown, and orange. I'm February brooding,
suffocation from a lack of sun.
My therapist tells me to appreciate
my moods, to talk back and walk on. I nod...
but I'm Rothko painting.
I can't bear mirrors and self-contemplation.
I'm a Rothko painting, and it's difficult
to accept beauty's nuclear age.
I remind myself that sunlight varies by season,
meaning depends on context.
Rothko painted me layer on layer;
now let me hang and dry.
Wrong Turn
I get lost every day now.
Dried fruit falls from the vine and stains.
Yes, something visible remains.
I grasp whatever drops on the floor nearby.
Plastic bottles sparkle miniature boats.
I cling to what floats by.
I have a few memories that slide
from the organ file—hard-crusted jewels;
remind me where I got them?
Have you seen a brain—its odd nooks and crannies,
its frightened softness like a newborn chick hiding
under a potato chip bag?
I have a few memories that elide for convenience's
sake. Strawberries and peaches collide—what a mess.
Have you seen my brain cluck, cluck, clucking?
Two or three wrong turns, and the journey folds in
on itself like my brain. On the way home, I try to forget
how little remains.
round the bend, I've met myself. Direction
doesn't matter. I know when to expect it—never
in a mirror—always head on, not necessarily straight.
I still have not mastered self-expression.
Recently I noticed the floors hadn't been swept.
Furniture and boxes had halos announcing
their importance. Intimidated, I lost my train
of thought.
How can I improve on holiness when I've got a direct
line to existential hell? I get caught in texture and don't even
question colors. After a moment lost, I return
to my brushes and canvases.
I'm told a Francis Bacon is unmistakable. I'm told
that Francis Bacon is irreplaceable. If only there were
fortune cookies so that I could add "in bed." But I spend
too much time worrying
my sex life has been a ripped canvas, repaired,
repainted. I'm not the only one who knows that Francis
Bacon is not so extraordinary. Only mangled images
from my imagination play out on canvas, but they aren't
'in bed.'
The days pass, and I paint my nightmares in thick layers.
I'm praised but don't know why.
I Am a Rothko Painting
Canvas stretched across a frame, rough and dry.
I'm a Rothko painting—deep red,
brown, and orange. I'm February brooding,
suffocation from a lack of sun.
My therapist tells me to appreciate
my moods, to talk back and walk on. I nod...
but I'm Rothko painting.
I can't bear mirrors and self-contemplation.
I'm a Rothko painting, and it's difficult
to accept beauty's nuclear age.
I remind myself that sunlight varies by season,
meaning depends on context.
Rothko painted me layer on layer;
now let me hang and dry.
Wrong Turn
I get lost every day now.
Dried fruit falls from the vine and stains.
Yes, something visible remains.
I grasp whatever drops on the floor nearby.
Plastic bottles sparkle miniature boats.
I cling to what floats by.
I have a few memories that slide
from the organ file—hard-crusted jewels;
remind me where I got them?
Have you seen a brain—its odd nooks and crannies,
its frightened softness like a newborn chick hiding
under a potato chip bag?
I have a few memories that elide for convenience's
sake. Strawberries and peaches collide—what a mess.
Have you seen my brain cluck, cluck, clucking?
Two or three wrong turns, and the journey folds in
on itself like my brain. On the way home, I try to forget
how little remains.
Kevin Hinkle is a New Jersey poet and photo-based digital artist. His work has appeared in literary and arts journals, such as The Tishman Review, The Baltimore Review, Tupelo Quarterly, The Tulane Review, Grey Sparrow, The Pedestal Magazine, and Utter.
