Keats or The Marquis

This will be short as my neck is, um truncated (sic) a little compressed, a locked solid spinal unit.

Have been painting again, and that's why. Reaching up to paint; the head inclined, arms raised, a pressure is placed on the neck.

The blinds are flapping. It's hot. I'm naked which is quite usual on a hot day. I swim nude a lot. The word is a good one.

Nude: The flow of information the body recieves unmediated by bunched cloth and false modesty. It's a word as unapologetic as 'bald' or boob. Maybe even Bob.

These short words suit my mood. My mood is: leather bar. I'm a rock star fetish model in a photo shoot, I'm debauched as Keats would have been if he'd lived in the 21st century.

I bet, that behind all the staid pastoral verse there lay a huge inner life that he never showed anybody. And as Douglas Coupland wrote, these days all those poets would probably be in leather bars.

It's evening. The sky is turning white.