"i went to a museum on saturday; only god knows how I survived it- like watching paint dry in a church. there were lots of statues among some egyptian ruins- snooze it; thanks, but not. lots of pictures of dead people, loads of my english descendants- i quite like that fuex military thing they had going for a bit (note to stylist: viet nam green meets Elizabethan military). there were loads of shots of baby Jesus and his mother; quite fetching were the ones sans the baby- like, as soon as she became a single mother, not so much. more pictures of dead people, and more after that. made me quite sleepy, actually. i practically passed out from exhaustion within the first fifteen minutes of entering. [right, well, I should preface my whole reason for being there in the first place was because I was talkin to this bird walkin down the street- ‘bout eleven A in the M, coming home from the night before. so we was chattin it up- blasé blasé- and I end up walkin into the Met (the metropolitan museum of art, thank you very much). well, turns out the bird had a geeza, but by the time I figured it, I was fully trapped inside. it’s impossible to find your way out of such places, very much like a bloody Ikea. we did an event at an Ikea once. opened a store in rotterdam. retarded place, that is. gave us furniture as payment (really poor management back then). furniture lasted about as long as a relationship with a groupie.]
anyway, I stumble on this francis bacon exhibit. little did i know, it was right near the front door. had i known, i would have been out like a sprout. now, bacon was english, born in london, 1920’s. rich family; father was a bit of a bully. i remembered this from the crap grammar academy i went to as a kid. they wouldn't let us look at his paintings cause they were a bit too racy for youthful eyes. well, one of me mates tells me later, bacon was into men, and that’s the reason they didn’t show us. they didn’t want to get us gayed up- like that could happen. for me, well, whateva, you know? (whateva drives the art, is what i mean.) what really intrigued me was that bacon liked his sex rough. privy to it myself, luv, if given the chance. see, but bacon was beat by his father. and he saw a lot of violence in his life time- living in europe during WWII says enough. i think i can understand why he might want to create that scenario. but I wasn’t beat by my father- mine ignored me. the only violence i see is created by myself, or me band mates, like in a bar fight, or that little mishap that happened with the special kids on the tube that strange easter sunday. those oddities, and while i’m in bed, when i happen upon a girl who shares the same proclivities. even then, it’s controlled violence, mutual by all accounts. [please stop judging me, it’s really not necessary. it is what it is and i am what i am. things as they are.] but I digress…
bacon uses great color, weird form, and a completely compelling subject matter- check out that shite about pope innocent X; F’d up, to say the least. and here i am, feeling quite okay about my own F’d up misogynistic lyrics. not so bad, bacon. thanks for sharing!"
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