The theme of pain

Thinking about Francis Bacon      
     
Very dark hues      
or extremely bright,      
the ambiguous stand Lie      
that surrounds us all,      
where the orange color,      
of advertising false optimism,
is now fading  
in the hopeless black.      
       
No promise of modernity      
is fulfilled      
and in his paintings      
we are all portrayed,      
into the void of solitude      
of rarefied atmospheres,      
into minimalistic apartment,      
under the harsh light      
of bare bulbs.      
       
With the theme of pain      
were generated      
his tormented visions,      
between cultural ferment      
and massacres of war,      
the suicide of love      
and artistic restlessness      
       
The despair      
is a deformed feeling      
unfinished figures      
float like ghosts      
and direct us grimace      
embedded in time,      
in a slow opening diaphragmatic      
long exposures      
       
The temporary nature of things      
pervades all      
in a system which prefers      
industrial production      
to live in dignity,      
where the real tragedy      
is planned obsolescence      
of human beings      
       
The squalid hard daily gestures,      
obsessive repetitions,      
in claustrophobic suffocation      
among paranoia's lonely stains,      
Francis, cruelly unmasked us      
beings of the absurd in motion,      
the essence of creatures      
abandoned to themselves      
       
Austere men in tie      
stiff black suits      
in sleeves of shirts      
or obscenely naked,      
melt in a slow camera      
in the blur of forgetfulness      
       
For all the effort to produce      
superfluous goods,      
thing we get in return?      
They take over our lives      
and reward us with useless things,      
we crawl into an alienating world      
swallowing ephemeral values      
that will lead us to extinction      
       
The children of modernity      
transpire suppressed violence,      
which bursts      
in a thousand fragments of loneliness,      
in the absence of cognition,      
of no reason existences      
       
Francis, freezes our thoughts      
takes them beyond      
interfacial appearances,      
to the ends      
close to the seeming chaos      
to block the logical system of mind.      
       
"... Art is the victory, of the single animal      
who knows he will die ..."      
(Malraux)