Six to seven… five of ten, oft than not co-mingled and argumentatively disruptive people

And the briar rose controls its own explosion

Poised at permittedly po-faced proceeding – and with them, their decidedly over-elongated barely enunciated finger trails

A little bit jarring should we not think it a thousand times too many

Places to go – with our over-bearing selves again
Pensive and shredded into flurried bouts of non-stop disarmament

To next to nowhere all of that sacrificially fruitful anymore

As though it was a lamb to the slaughter, she signed her own death warrant as if it was the easiest known thing to the masculine man

Sacrilege at being bothered by the surround sound, vehemently ill-at-ease and already, already, already tearing our insides artificially asunder – utmost so no kind of a freeing toast to bathe the beneficial host
Both of, and for

The scheming, screaming, motherfucking careening shape of the hollow-acoustic soul

Mightily mixed-up imaginations quarrelling with glad-ragged bombardment which distantly dances

Tantalised creatively amidst cracked capitals and non-judgemental apostrophes – KILLS US NOT TO SEE IT/FEEL IT/FREE IT/FLEE IT any less than they shall coinhabit themselves and boisterously attempt…

At feeling it shrink in no two ways about it but for stinking oblivion
When the typewritten opinion of others matters the most in the turntable world of a writer’s favourite dreams

A soloist soul carries with it all sorts of divisive metaphors – to rampantly explore, capture and travail

And, of course, all awhile permits itself to enthusiastically explode – just like the damn briar rose