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here is a cut of New York strip, plucked from the belly of a tattoo, a ship upturned on right hip heading back towards pubic bone, the blossom guarded by vigilantes laughing over a letter of our concurrent death. An echo chamber in a casing of lamb sold to an engine ruby red. There is an emphasis to the gore and the concurrent (ute solo. You pull my hair back in a dream where we may make essay with the slow grind of hip informing hip; you see my face through a haze of pixie dust and a thousand suns of your own. Then an ungodly volume of red dust. You watch all of this and your face remains, white by day and red by night.