Party, over at midnight, sleep until two   A finger in the side, damning the rude outside   tearing your peach-fried mind   (that's bottom-of-the-sea borne)   and loving it      Hey, bone down there ain't no halfway 3-D ground   you'd turn on your arm to get the   chaos and deals in motion      and to best this is rote to end on a C note   Willie-boy checks his gun - go pistolero!   and turns to watch the surfer girls      Bag that blue hyaline   good sailing once you pay for your seas in gloaming      She, skin train below the wreck of pleasant rain   and clocks made of seed that falls to your feet   like motel ice      Dusk keeps the torque and I'll sing so long as   dreams speak of the flood (I see you in most of them)   but not the ruining shifts of sand      Here are the rules of life:   a tank to borrow, a cup to save.   In the wake and in the blood   the bleach-black sea rolls over   the diamond backs of surfer girls