The vouchsafed is standing in shadows on the gravel path
back at work, and dusk seems to
urge him to go out more, rehearse too much
and get wasted.
What has he beside a sack of parrots?
He’s snooty and sells commodities like concepts?

He was saying that skull sculpture pile is rot
since it supposes its completion as marsh

-puissance coming back as a meadow variety
of nibbling torque. No way, this just in:

I’m on his regimen.
Smoking hot.