Observe the skin fascination, the black daybreak, the workers who whistle from time to unshakable time. Come, paint your man. My mouth is a music-light in the morning. We could help the children of these broad windows, the empty space shining beneath soft lights.
Don’t take hunger so personally. Even golden-haired Mary takes off her clothes like silk clockwork, has coffee or wine and rattles a magazine. Leap into her hands on the table but be careful around the poison of a systematic life. Her obsessed audience may crucify a quick tongue, make an extravagant tragedy worthy of fresh meat before lions.
Chase the sun for the bleached promise of sugar-flowers and sticky eyes across a patchwork carnival of failed madness.