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.

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