Francis Bacon Made My Face

Cuckoo

Francis Bacon Made My Face

Francis Bacon made my face
He picked up lumps of plasticine
From the floor where kids had left them
Squeezed them to a multi-coloured ball
With one eye watching stoically appalled
He pushed in the other socket with his thumb
Dragging colour in a streak
Thrust the nose aside and cut collops
From the cheek to smudge on to the brow
Pinched the lips with his finger tips
Then washed his hands

When he had gone
I picked up a scrap of paper
With a smiley face in crayon
And stuck it to the front
With sticky tape.

Copyright © 2014 Diana Banks

Cuckoo

But she is always the hostess
You wailed when I suggested that
It would cost less for you
To entertain them chez vous
There is always someone whose
Façade is rather slick and brash
Who talks loud and fast and fails
To notice details in the crowd
Someone for whom nuances
Are clouds for scattering
With gales of personality
Who chains the conversation
To their personal comfort zone
Leaving you usurped and gracious
As they nestle in your home

Copyright © 2014 Diana Banks