A prostitute spars with the trickster painting trader.
The shining needles of sword catch the sun, fire rains across the garden grounds.
People will drown Lilly’s for our laughter.
But we don’t have any daughters, our hands only touch each other’s foreheads.
With Lilly water we paint secret maps of the canals, where treasure is found.
Spreading egyptian lipstick on our tongues,
The loving or sheepish fever from it.
Full sentences are for business or marriages only!
Words that mean the World,
rattle off the tongue as if yearned.
This is the language of the Gestalts of Love.
To drink wine; laughing, trading, fucking.
We were hired by the garden to be background singers for their daydreams.
Those who drown the Lilly’s are who make our paint,
So we can retrace the maps of roads they didn’t take.
You write a satire for Time when you paint my forehead, others watch as if they had discovered how to move clouds for the first time.
To watch through Lilly water.
The ideas a painting trader and a prostitute can mold. How currencies of secrets and cleverly can create gold.
To my guest in the land of Easter, let me welcome you into insanity that holds no fear.
Garden green reaches out for me to take lingerie,
My grandma winks and then her eyes bend into the leaves.
On a piano a redhead sings oh forget the Greeks Venus, for I love the old Venice!
Behind the mane of an emerald lion, peeking through his hairs we see a sentient fountain.
Medieval flutes dance on the little bumps of legs,
The angels couldn’t know my type of language, if I didn’t practice with them.
Mustn’t not move any sun hats from copper hooks;
In the land of Easter bugs work inside of them, who else could tend to our Imagination?
Deep into the sun stained meadows, we strain our eyes on the vermilion puppet we call Laughter.
His face dressed in jester porcelain.
Too small to be held by strings, he dances in the green like a red devil on exotic angel wings.
Shadows here compliment those who lay in triads or more.
Hidden away from the man who waves his hands angry in the empty air.
For my guest who dares to come near, step down from your ballerina jewelry box.
The redhead and her piano will eat your sorrows and our flutes may play to your insanities desire.
Suppression is no friend here,
Even upon the tongue of the Beast, we leave notes of wisdom and fresh pear.
Angel trumpets are flowers yet they play music only to walk your demon to.
To my guest, skip and dance while you are here,
Wisdom hates linear form and orderly fear.