Head of J.Y.M. 1969 — Frank Auerbach
You can smell the paint on it.
Mighty, meaty, ham-fisted blows,
bludgeoned brushstrokes,
violence and turpentine.
Seeking, yearning for
a lifeline of hope,
aching charity,
useless faith.
The head an excuse,
mad reason,
reverence misplaced.
Beauty a by-product,
paint is all that matters.
Suffocating, final, deadly.
