Picture

Picture this:

a happy man.

A man as happy as boy 

in sand: playing

mischief in both

good and bad:

the evil of

fun and the 

fun, bloodied 

handsomely of 

evil:

heaved and

leavened and

heavened and

severed from all 

chord umbilical:

musical

and sound.

And this happy man

has begun to

find his trace in the

grandest city ever 

there is: the city of

terrible ninety

six.

And this happy man

is so happy here,

amongst the memory

of tragedy borne proud, 

where no

one need lonely because 

t-

here,

when alone, he finds

no solitude: just a place

and a space 

to w

here his hat

freely, and jig along 

and jig beside the music of 

shop and street 

combined.

To my best year of

all: thank you

Liverpool, my 

love.

Where near and

dear have sadly gone and

failed me,

and I have failed 

them just as much, just

as miserably, 

you

have shown 

me how

to stand right tall:

to never walk alone, 

to never walk small.

And in fact you

are red, but also blue

for true: and all 

you have and all 

you are 

will 

never be 

too much for me …

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