What happened on the eve of the retrospective was a tragedy.
Somebody recounted you speaking, in your piecemeal French,
to the President of the Fifth Republic but today,
a new abstraction has encountered the coastline.
We had forgotten Velázquez, biomorphs Picasso, the Lancet,
but never Lightfoot or the logarithms of Dyer in the darkness
of the white porcelain. The rose in Spring had frozen over
the roulette tables. The real, now plainly obvious, couldn't
be an accident because there were compound eyes given
over to the registers at the Marlborough gallery. She had
tried to pay for her medical bills in the twilight of days.
In the Reese Mews studio, "You can jerk yourself off,
or you can get someone to jerk you off too," says the boy
deciphering a bureaucrat. He couldn't be on all fours, paralytic,
as that was someone else in the picture. Portraits will endure,
at Lucian's pace, in their specious avoidance of linseed legacies.
What about us with our last names re-arraigned? With the bull
already receding with the Furies, premature forms of provisions
made virtual barspeak to Deakin. The technologies of language
were always religious in their idiosyncratic ways of time. Bacon
                                                                                             knew,
and, Sister Mercedes transgressed the kinetic translation of hate.