Pome: The Only Thing That Counts Is Beauty And You Reading This Then Racing Away Down The Lane Painting An Amarillo Orchid From The Pastels In Your Soul

Or the breathing stillness of a morn soonforgot

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Paint this outta chalks. Pic: Scott Fletcher

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The Only Thing That Counts Is Beauty And You Reading This Then Racing Away Down The Lane Painting An Amarillo Orchid From The Pastels In Your Soul

a glass temple blown by a glassblower down a blowpipe sculpting magic from molten amber

the leaves in fields no on will ever see swirling incandescent like the first lights of earth

the rim of the world red and bloodied and eternal like the myth of all soothsayers

laughter as if you cannonballed to the sun and back drunk on the wine of merriment

the sheer terrible thrill of being truly alone

realising you always have been and will be

reading a page of The Crossing by C McCarthy and feeling a cathedral of emotion at what the life is and this the 4th or 5th time you read the page, the novel, and it all again becomes evermore heart taking, heart smashing, heart sundering, heart paining like you’d rather not ever got born or die or live or feel or vision and love all you love

BECAUSE:::

all that matters is beauty - the rest is anti- ART

SO:::