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.