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.
I dig so far into spring soil, I touched the leaves from the fall.
Grass stains, the doves of blood descend on my flower lamb.
Aurora cries, violently bobbing up from a venusian plumeging.
Mouth agape, virginal gills redeeming, unseen but you and the falls quivering leaves.
Giggling at the rolling visionallys,
mossy land bodies writhing in sexuatical delirium.
You can read on my quill tongue I need Pan,
My heels kick to match your hooves,
But now i’m squirming like tadpole sperm
In early summer, treasure deepening diver.
Your voice krakens from the apocalyptic bouquets of heavens,
Smearing whiteness on my tail onced wound,
‘Swim through and around me, say-soothe.’
I sit in Phantasmagoria, my body turns in my mothers glossolalia.
A ferris wheel I have found myself in,
Wrapped in a feathered serpent,
Its tongue where my insides could’ve been.
Is this Gods love? Who am I now but the God of Love?
Shapeshifting, god morphing, he is keeping from bursting out laughing.
‘My blushing owls’ nest! Our love comes from the heart-on of the human’s chest.’
Hekate, a hectic aussie tititantacalizes me.
Pheromones unleash charon’s ferry moans!
After friction smell my flower dandelion.
Red velvet lines quizzing your mind over bleeding thighs.
Im a target Diana! Miss orgasmic florid phantasma.
Hooves trammel love and war, paws cause clever cleavers
To dig up treasures forever more.
But his hands, inked with twinkling blink eyes,
Black bark and algae spark. Pubic moss peachy purity fuzz,
Veil over our watering white things in glow fog.
I give life from rain, fallen from the birthbath crumbling alone.
Vulnerable secret of my moon bath, schizophrenia.
How we were in the womb, my grieving tome.
It was a spike of jasmine, scent travels in thorns across snow, an essence carried not by loftiness. My feet landed in thorned arrival and she stood witnessed, my pregnant night owl.
Blankets of breathless snow lay for her discomfort but it reddens my gums and tongue.
Idle toys in white trash piles, they sleep on ice dreaming for warmth underground. Glances of Dionysian laughter shudders the solid wind, she knows that she’s not pregnant, she’s dreaming.
Trails of my existence gaslight her as I walk in canoe shoes towards her swelled phantom.
Lighting four fires in cardinal projection, snaring her to provide the birch logs. This is a book burning for toys, infertility has killed irreverence, the cold licked your lips of voice.
What means nothing means something is walking down means I don’t know means who are you means Hello.
Silence speaks, ‘throw all of your toys into the fire, what will awake?’
She hands me logs to feed the fires and her plastic things blossom to black anuses.
Pregnant night owl stands behind me, pretends she is meek, she’s afraid I will eat her.
I do her work for her but I do not share her heart, I am the janitor and she the queen.
Throwing in toys into these fires as if testing bunk fireworks, we wait to see what awakes.
A plastic white horse is thrown up on the flame, but no black anus is bubbling but from it a kick and a revving.
The horse grows the height of I, but it turns from plastic to real life.
It dances in the fire and I stand back watching a toddler convert into a star.
The voice of silence was answered and my pregnant night owl revered. But I tended with greater focus and saw no reins.
In flames the dancing horse jumped out like a mutter from a dream, and we walked up a snow hill out of the gardens steel gate.
All from a dream.
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.
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.
I view you like marbled shine of fat on a chuck eye cut.
No, I don’t have a fetish for 17th century authors. I want to fuck what was hidden for me to find.
The idea of time kills your erection? Wisdom (Chokmah) feels the same.
A cryptic text written by a soft hand wrapped in tender flesh makes me cum more than you can.
Sometimes it doesn’t, it depends on how long you can fuck the past.
Sometimes they can only fuck the future, eager moans turn into echoes.
They jump into the mouth of whos tongue only cries and consumes.
The tongue helps them die as a Christian martyr, on the precipice between children’s thighs.
To reach wisdom and the meat it contains in butchery, learn how you could fuck a woman or man in shy reach of your century.
A simple practice, what harm could be done?
To self create a sensitive memory, to induce.
To self create a memory without it being inflicted.
To create a fetish thats deeper.
To be one not just with the present.
To be one not with the community.
To be One with the Noone.
To drop eggs not only in the same bed.
But throughout time.
Just like Einstein intended.