The Lovers at the Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosencrantz. A Reverie and a Confounded Letter.

This thought has weight you said as you lifted my head between your landscape breasts.

A softer view than the hills that waved blue into the distance between us.

My hand searched in the dark blind wet between and Mozart night music flattered my ears. I stood as tall as all the soldiers and listen to nothings gossiped amongst the universal insects. I could feel the warmth that came, calming palpable from the gasping between your legs. Anointing liquid shone slid over my fingers like spiders dew. The gorse web grass pearled with this and the burial mound glowed with sweat thoughts. Cheese cloth light and flowered pattern Dorelia insights matching the meadow.

Distance equals time and thoughts exist in time. Ergo, thoughts have distance and distance has substance. So thoughts have weight. The red rose pinnacle rose, from under the cloth, out of my focus to this, pushing back my lip. A pendulum swung as a growing sex from the shadows in the tree above, getting longer. That, I would pay anything to draw with all the learnt skill I can

The tree in outline stood alone along the riverun. The distance hazy heat like netting caught at the edges of sight. The sky a dome and the green a valley with copses of pubic growth where sheep walked the same tracks, every day. High and low mist strata burnt off with the coming of time. Dry walls with small birds tuck tutting long tails and chirruping sauce to the neighbours. Cloven cattle with chestnut hair and curling horn. Ornamental mud hanging down as a festival highlight of natural lives

.

Given the symptoms of crying, you said I am wet and wonderful. I wondered briefly was this of where you were lying. A wren scolded from a bramble. Don't, shouldn't, not to, it said from under a wing scratching for parasites that crossed it like critics writing of what they don't know.

This was exploring a female valley instead of a male mountain and I wondered about being too old and how long this stiff one would last. A stiff one that you sipped from with a tonic. Slowly letting your eyes wander through the hills to the skies complete. Mackerel and scuff driven blue.

It rain melted grey off to the sacred west across the hills and I thought of wet drawing you in the sylvan landscape. You would take me, you said, as I drew drawing me in. The waves of seven hitting the shore and the crumpled ideas that were listless like slow old love in their movements. You cannot be there where you are any more and I understand the weight that ideas put on your wilt white shoulders. The stagnant mud of lower opinion smells a lot sweeter than when standing still. Mud and mutability produce life but not in this and that. Chaos produces evil instead and what do they know of the symmetry inherent in loving long? The equation is simple. The theory is complete. The abstract is hard like me, still.

I wrote this down with a drawing of your lips in my sketchbook. You wanted to look but I could not let you lose it. Not when it was so close to knowing what the correspondences were. The theory of connections as the sun shone through the rain and the dog licked your feet. Giving you a flower to start and end this cycle.