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.
It takes a lot of guts, constantly cleaning the windows just to touch a ray of lucifer. Blood stained high cheekbones. Sapphire eyes and red lips smiling, laughing. Deep red heroin. Prostitutes who fuck so they can describe the tombs.
She is so eager. I can hear the ribs inside her pussy rattle as a snake God cleans her out. Make her a new person before the redling wakes up.
The way bone marrow flaps, it vibrates like a cat’s predatory chatter. A choir begins to scream in the pack. How healing comes for the whore sideways!
Everyone sits back and waits, until they see her strip away at her red layers. Dropping each red garment to the clay floor. Rosacea seared her meat, widowing her whiteness to make glossolalia musique.
There is a kind of light that shoots between birds. Silent crescent lovers who ignore the masses. Soil makes it soft to make passivity manic.
Those who do not know Death, are sent to work the Aerial tolls, where they live off their own illusion as patriarchal trolls.
Passivity is not attractive to the ant who’s afraid to die.
Those birds flock South like tissue from a uterus. Fertile land on fire attacks anyone who defends it. Dancing upon alabaster are shadows of heretics.
Low vibrato tenderizes a pale birth. The healing that is violent of Iain Sinclair, consoles the dent carved on the heads of abandoned children. This is red lipstick and carmine beetles in tandem, a mothers secret.
My skin sheds. Limpid thimbles dropping in pools of mirror, my name is Temperance. Blood, touching it makes incense spread black and wide. Old reliefs are still breathing in treasure banks. To sift and wade in my dreams of algae and cyclopian weddings, do not run.
I tell my rosy cheeked girls, don’t leave the outhouse of Hades until those tendrils are clove hitched.
To have Temperance is to have memory move through the body. it’s just a feeling of intuitive catharsis, anything else is dysecdysis.
When I feel vulnerable I do not waste small spaces. When I feel afraid I do not waste adrenaline. When I am Death I do not waste life.
I make my serpent glow, for it is receptive in these moments! And I do make its flesh glow lagoon green; the color a Maiden blushes during her first fiend.