Incense, incensed; drip four letters laterally. Sip sauce of sunk ships, blinked past lost tips. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, waiting watchfully for future ending Saturdays. The weekend calls the start of still, time flipped on each flop, slip. Tin cans half full of half-empty lids, rusted out bottoms resurrect the clean game, provenance. Some days the words meaning minds; others, they form pink clouds of unsung sorrow. Picture pitchers of piss-glazed pints, peering into placid points of star-bound dreams. We sit shaky some days, tuning; in the next day and out the five former.