Triptych (after Francis Bacon)

[Left]
Three floors 
	of carceral rendition clerks snow-blind 
		with data-drift - labouring over
studies which show changes in cognition due to 
	desire
for administrative hurdles, poorly designed scoping 
	documents – larval, flesh-sculpted
figures hallucinating raw data, algorithms, representative 
	fractal patterns
at frequencies 
	invisible to 
the human eye - building their nests out of chewed-up
	and spat-out handwritten memos
based on their policy of mundane intervention, the dreary 
	exculpation
of all of mankind’s sins, circuit glitches, bugs in the 
	source code
a mandate for bureaucracy which stands or falls on its 
	ability to deliver one last, public 
		act of 
crucifixion. 

[centre]
                      Deny your gods	three	    times, champagne and oysters
                 crawl back to your       studies	    and offer penance
              what you were good 	   for	            did you do?
          once were there carved	     figures	    on the altarpiece
                  a laughing beggar         at the	           marketplace of images
        skyward gesture to your      basest	            urges, innerspace/boy
                     holding no hope	       of a	            reprieve from all these cocks and asses
                     happiest hung in     crucifixion	   pose, nailed to the mind’s-eye of a generation

[right]
She weaves a shawl, sat before her loom on a three
	legged stool
into the cloth, a notation of stitches, all of her studies
	all of her quiet foretellings
preserving the record, the names of the dead, for 
	posterity, for those who would see
into the warp and the weft, she sums the figures
	tallies the lost
works through the night, pauses for a meal at the
	break of dawn 
the grease on her plate, flesh degenerated to base
	remainder, this mortal rendering
from outside her window, the roseate stain of a 
	new day creeps up the glass
the pale shadow of another unremarked crucifixion
	waits beneath her hands.