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Writing



I long to write about this the most.

Lost utterly in this love that is the longing

to write about this.


Not about anything. 

The writing .


Maybe that’s what is meant by 

It’s the pointing not what is being pointed at.

But I loved the moon too much.

And the finger, the hand, the pointing and the attempt to say....

....that... It's all of those baby.


To write words that captures the very writing of them.

a painting that captures the painting of that painting

a song about singing about that song.

 it would appear that is what I am writing about


Appears.

The wonder of writing appearing to happen.

and the inescapable intimacy of that. 


It's not about anything. 


It's a hug hugging a hug. Hugggingginging. An inloveness inlovingness with itself however it does. 

No you cant see yourself darling but the attempt is you also. It's our intimacy.


I am a child again

ranting and raving.


It would appear that what I am writing about is something.

But it's just writing

This is a dull statement for the brain 

Cos the brain has an explanation for writing

Appears to know this as writing.


Appears.


And still and all I prefer to have a coffee and dream

Imagine falling in love again and again

Dreaming of yachts and champagne and cigarettes 

Wearing sun glasses with hidden eyes gorgeing upon delicate fingers and neck lines and lips and eyes and breasts and hair.

Drinking red warm wine. Picking on salty things. 

Listening out for the coconut man. Long gone home.

His echo echoing.

The evening sun coming down. Blinding. Softly.

And my relentless appetite for appetite.

The merry go round of dreaming. 

 I am like my dog. Need a run about or I’ll go cuckoo. The lazy dog owner that I am.


Even with this freedom

There is constraint.

But that constraint is also this freedom.

And that's the killer.

But it’s all you ever wanted my

Love.


And I do not know what this empty vessel will do till he is, despite all thoughts to the contrary.

I am so joyously happy to be a soulless, godless, hopeless pile of everything that appears to happen. 

No I don't look like it...hahahhaa. 

It’s the freedom that well could only be described as ‘how it appears to be’


till suddenly.

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