The sun is one to do without for now; for now, lie low from it.

Rip me apart motherfuckers, slow and sure.
I can always crayon a portrait of the process,
A multi-interior landscape.
Unless you’d impart better judgment on an oil.

By playing the caprice for you, I must have it whittled down already.
Why I’d negate presumption: now one role’s switched,
I guess I’m the pessimist.
Shave your beard.

I’m waiting at the airport, fourth time too many.
One foot upon another, they complement themselves in purple strains.
I bet long hair brings transportation. But even when I tried I could be no
Libertine debutante. The freedom’s in the fecal dealing, time of death.

For all our ethical bankruptcy, I still have the bathroom floor.
Its scent enlivens what I never knew.
But who am I?
I have an idea. I’ll go construct it for you:

Must fingers form steeples in the afterglow?
Must viewpoints illumine in case of a chance?
Will ever the twigs be out of your field?
For once, award them what they’re worth.

An orange and a ruby, together and alone
In your own little self-seeking fractals,
you fucks.
Try and spare me this time the invitational gin.

You’ve caballed me toward my faction.
Nothing must be explained, nor bargained for --
To absorb and convalesce is what I stay for,
Once the sun retreats a bit and takes me with it.