Vincent van Gogh Self-Portrait [With Bandaged Ear, Oil on Canvas, 1889, Courtauld Institute, London] The blue is in the eyes last white of seeing only no other world but those harsh swirls and me weighed down with all the long history of paint’s flight into the way the blood’s aorta sees. The shadows of my skin are there already bruising their whorls into some viscous future craving to be real - as all that stuff crowds round - will force itself through all the nauseous colours into my visions, change it to light’s own thickness and design, as flowers sun out the truth must work my harsh brush beyond myself. - do not surrender all my delights come only for the healing and narrations of the light - The colour as it comes, the brush strokes short, expressionist, alive (unlike Paul’s landscapes are more solid) must break apart the wall of air - can see - - can touch - vibrating in between, bring its dark suns unmutilated into the dangers of its unabandoned moments, onto the canvas’ waiting absence, sharp - dear god don’t let me go . . . - I sold a painting once - in my delusions - keep this token Rachel carefully - can look like that stark bandaged with the sudden colour of too much palpability.