Intaglio is all in the Subtle Wrist. A Confounded Letter on Painting.

Start.

Taste that. Drink your stinking brush brown linseed and wash hogs hit hair brush out of your earthy pallet coffee colour cup. Sit on the pig iron black white dripped stool, placing brown very thin band hand rolled tight on the edge untasted. Number 6 packets make made the best, roaches I mean. Large brush clipping drippings. Fat oiled shiny stroked strokes.

Watch that. Taste that.

Look, I mean, really look. Pain your head with the look. Shouted looking. What you see, not what you think, you see. It all depends on the punctuation. A comma in red a colon in blue. Puncture hold the largest long pinned stretchers top and bottom. One foot on the easel loose butterfly wooden hinge. Push in brush tempered temper, canvassed for meaning. Brush held by the very tip. Its all in the subtle wrist, this abstract expressionist body pleasure painting.

Walk away and look. Walk farther and look, stool sit, stand and notice, change and changed, erase, roll out and push around, mix and mixed. Almost engage and then hesitate. Squeeze the body tube until the oil separates. Smoke the brush, drop, drip the chew the fat wash intaglio. Enough is enough, leave that, return to it, come back go. Play your waste pipe. Turn away.

Think, no you never think, you do and doing is enough. How can you tell anyone else what is never understood whilst not thinking, doing? Play windy nonsense on your penny pipe.

Warm comes forward, cool retreats. As in, you know, so below. Do this, do that, light this, suck that, no you stupid bugger, below that . Follow dreaming days with the light before it goes, as it always. Wipe your shirt, your nose with paint, whistle compete with the kettle. Cold coffee painting always as the light does.

Leave that. Singing humming.

Break charcoal, finger tip like edge sex. Push it in too wet fibre. Slip it around. Fold it rather than draw. Create a frightening edge.Consider the word moist and spit on it, twice. Think about a Seurat sweet drawing without lines. Big paper. Big drawing. Leonardo's cartoon.

Confiscate your collapsed contraband and blow that, this sucking hairs out of a fleshy lusting for colour, landscape.

Leave that alone always. Never come back to that one pushed against the wall. The one done alone with a naked woman talking about her hip critic husband. Grunt answers in non erotic rapt taste movements. I've heard of that. I've never heard of that one. Don't think about titled tales until its finished. Smell the shellac cooking. The Glue size stinking like all hell head dead.

The smell of a thousand and one nights buzzing when painting Scheherazade stories that need never be finished.