New York City, sweet Briar-Rose Red Avenue. And a meandering minute sweeps past midnight.

Steeped in unofficial sadness – a rather resolute person who owns the scope of her whole wide traversing universe. Smokes rolled up Rosemary-cigarettes whilst she pokes fun at the other intersprinkled person.

People with no such burst-of-fire behaviour in readied place – for they could not stand up for what they truly believed in once upon a diving, dwindling, stinging swansong.

This typewritten masterpiece which still sits eerily unnoticed, unintroduced to anyone anymore – the very same one with dog-ears sketched and stretched ear-achingly upon, the lot. Page after forlorn page follows leaf after gossamery leaf – golden fisticuffs emerging within the thankless task of a pain-spasmed a.m.

Something that this Converse-wearing girl cannot quite contend with nor wholly comprehend. The whole size of its indisputable reach in the fallen face of ill-chosen adversity – it sure does hurt for her to feel anything resembling a spark of any kind of remarkable.

Ominous doom yet she will bicker on regardless, upping high-geared sticks and moving with the raptorial times – there is a titanic mind inside of herself and it can tend affably toward the elaborate turn of wrought-iron words into some kind of sworn upon magic. If it can only manage to beneficially bargain within the renovating nature of its own truculent shape.

Fine wine, indiscreet and promisingly promiscuous misbehavings taking recklessly generous seed yet again – oh so very unanimously welcomed in. And the flourishing of flowers that she witnesses to see appear to have been the very same dapplings of dexterity that she knows that her imagination will fail to typically adorn.

By the all-encompassing challenge of the intellectual eyeline. Oh my, what a pretty little miraculous face, though. For it to have done what it has managed to single-handedly achieve either way forced forth-forward convoluted in this clamorous season. Of upside-down madness and cherry blossomed reimaginings and nothing else but for. Trying to leave itself become turned up, burned up, inside of red ashes of holy ghost ambers. Of plagiarised poets.

Yes, she has to have been her own worst enemy, building an enigma to imprison her in.

When time standing irrevocably still can cause that imperial and fantastically concentrated, coined face to implode, beatback explode… And with it nowhere, no place to ever fathom and gather itself to go…

It fell for the darkest edges of itself over some two decades ago, and now it leaves a trail of dedicatory hypocrisy midst its soft, jaded and deliriously sentimental surrounds but for no place to call home. Where is home, though, and wherever on earth was it in the first insistent instance? Whilst she eagerly listens – endlessly, outright downright conscientiously impassioned… and this appears to have steadfastly been the single most rhapsodic answer which she simply needed to know of…

Just that the self-explanatory aesthetics were always and forever off by a thousand-million degrees of commonplace heat. When the foxy needle drops and she cannot ever cause herself to stop – welcoming herself back to this multi-emotive place.

Of controlled creative chaos.
With a blade in her fist, she begins to feel everything so suddenly superior and the words suddenly seem to ghost and misbehave and absolutely look to her like an upside-down travailed version of a misjudged masterpiece.

Caught up in a middle-place of complete drivel and bombarding drive.
No other eyes anymore but for the encyclopedic look inside the liberated minds of her fondest favourite posthumous readers.

What if all of the alphabets in all of the world decided within the farthest reaches of themselves to secretively bring back together the might of her mind – a roundtable situation wherein everything is for play just not yet for keeps.

– And this is what kills her the most – that there is no linguistic straightforward answer any more than there is a book that speaks for itself only minus the crutch of the cover –
Pictures, pictures, even pixelations of fine and honorary illustrations might suffice, for it battles and beats with half of the fight inside.

Can they not simply recognise that her life depended entirely upon the handheld creation of utter literature and ramshackle rhyme tentatively guided and gently guised by makeshift ulterior lies – the mistaken, misshapen commonplace masterpiece which ghastly proceeds the size of the fall?

And that she broke the delicately prearranged insides of her better brain for this. To appear decidedly abnormal as she most certainly is.