Imagine A Painter Crucified By

In The Evening Everything Has A Schedule, If You Can Find Out What It Is.

Therefore Bivouac We On This Great, Blond Highway, Unimpeded By Veiled Scruples, Worn Conundrums. Morning Is Impermanent. Grab Sex Things, Swing Up Over The Horizon Like A Boy On A Fishing Expedition.

Not Until It Starts To Stink Does The Inevitable Happen.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.