Poetry: It Allows A Portrait In Line Scan At Fifteen | clivejames.com
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It Allows A Portrait In Line Scan At Fifteen

He retains a slight 'Martian' accent, from the years of single phrases.
He no longer hugs to disarm. It is gradually allowing him affection.
It does not allow proportion. Distress is absolute, shrieking, and runs him
at frantic speed through crashing doors.
He likes Cyborgs. Their taciturn power, their intonation.
It still runs him around the house, alone in the dark, cooing and laughing.
He can read about soils, populations and New Zealand. On neutral topics he's
Arnie Schwarzenegger is an actor. He isn't a cyborg really, is he, Dad?
He lives on forty acres, with animals and trees, and used to draw it continually.
He knows the map of Earth's fertile soils, and can draw it freehand.
He can only lie in a panicked shout SorrySorryIdidn'tdoit! warding off
conflict with others and himself.
When he ran away constantly it was to the greengrocers to worship
stacked fruit.
His favourite country was the Ukraine: it is nearly all deep fertile soil.
Giggling, he climbed all over the dim Freudian psychiatrist who told us
how autism resulted from ‘refrigerator' parents.
When asked to smile, he photographs a rictus-smile on his face.
It long forbade all naturalistic films. They were Adult movies.
If they (that is, he) are bad the police will put them in hospital.
He sometimes drew the farm amid Chinese or Balinese rice terraces.
When a runaway, he made uproar in the police station, playing at three
times adult speed.
Only animated films were proper. Who Framed Roger Rabbit then
authorised the rest.
Phrases spoken to him he would take as teaching, and repeat.
When he worshipped fruit, he screamed as if poisoned when it was fed to him.
A one-word first conversation: Blane. - Yes! Plane, that's right, baby!
- Blane.

He has forgotten nothing, and remembers the precise quality of experiences.
It requires rulings: Is stealing very playing up, as bad as murder?
He counts at a glance, not looking. And he has never been lost.
When he ate only nuts and dried fruit, words were for dire emergencies.
He knows all the breeds of fowls, and the counties of Ireland.
He'd begun to talk, then resumed to babble, and silence. It withdrew
speech for years.
When he took your hand, it was to work it, as a multi-purpose tool.
He is anger's mirror, and magnifies any near him, raging it down.
It still won't allow him fresh fruit, or orange juice with bits in.
He swam in the midwinter dam at night. It had no rules about cold.
He was terrified of thunder and finally cried as if in explanation It - angry!
He grilled an egg he'd broken into bread. Exchanges of soil-knowledge are
called landtalking.
He lives in objectivity. I was sure Bell's palsy would leave my face only when
he said it had begun to.
Don't say word! when he was eight forbade the word ‘autistic' in his presence.
Bantering questions about girlfriends cause a terrified look and blocked ears.
He sometimes centred the farm in a furrowed American Midwest.
Eye contact, Mum! means he truly wants attention. It dislikes I-contact.
He is equitable and kind, and only ever a little jealous. It was a relief when
that little arrived.
He surfs, bowls, walks for miles. For many years he hasn't trailed his left arm
while running.
I gotta get smart! looking terrified into the years. I gotta get smart!