A Fiery Lick

Something about paint I absolutely adore!~feeling more fluid-thinking when wearing an old smock, branded with dashes and blobs, to my mind each one a stripe of rank with starry splashes my medals – like coral reefs like florescent algae a new canvas primed, runny with liquid motion; I thrust my igniting brush...somewhat sad when all is dried and framed; yet the good ones remain tacky to the touch, delightfully smeary to the eye~like the wetted hands of children, bringing their innate patterns into active focus -- I think, when it comes to poetry the ocean will never be entirely emptied: what mysterious lyrics lurk in such black, unrhymed depths – by the magma-vents, like moths writers are drawn to eerie glows, shadowy forms~dauntless, ready to risk even death for fiery licks and rapturous cuddles....