T[he!] pa[in]terly dis[position …]

Sat in bars, though precisely not right now,

I find myself of a painterly dis

position: outside my home, nestled up

against Joyce, gifts from

strangely glorious woman; a world of wonder

returns to my grace as if religious

communion be just the

case.

 

And whilst sat at home is more polished and

quite fine, and the for-

mat-

TED backchat finds its expression

far more correct, hardly Jesus wept

at all, hardly problematic in

automatic ways of doing and being and

posting, there’s something about

the rough and ready nature

of your soul and your whole and your

ciggies and your not, that has made

me fall in love with the family

you must be:

so many years we’ve been out of

touch: both physically of course, but mind[‘]s-

pace senses also do

rewrite a history we should’ve shared

so long ago.

What it is to be smothered with family who less

cares, and miss out on precisely

the family which loves.

 

 

And being in touch, and touching’s

so important for a man like my

self who’s deprived of all

sen-

sat-

i-

on you, and satiating and sex:

the lust which is good, and does not

destroy, but oils like fine massage of skin,

{[he]art and s[o][u]l}

the thoughts and hopes and expectations

of a future, far better

experienced and lived: a future not of bullying

survive; a future of giving and taking and

thrive; a future for both where both

do get IN; a future which tastes and savours

and flavours and embraces and

hugs and caresses and strokes,

and makes me feel tender

and belovéd by halves

which come

together expertly in holes

of real win!

 

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