A stinging, living, seething singular beauty carries within her wings with her for dispassionate passion indeed, she feeds by the fallen chiselled features of his tear-stricken, -driven, once-upon-a-handsome face – and we do tend to let ourselves endlessly lend our over-bearing thought-process to her utterly upside-down and decidedly improper insinuations
This is a cutthroat and remotely controlling individual – radiant smoke-screened eyes upon the promiscuous p-r-i-z-e of a strife-time
She shall endlessly wine n’ dine til ferociously, fumblingly, feeding upon one castrated soul per deadlocked time
All alone and proposing to gesticulate and be – simply otherworldly at being utterly unforgiving, forging a real truth for only ever herself
All of these black-lies disguised in disgraceful mounds of falsified white – splattered in Jackson Pollock paint
They say that when she sleeps she will bargain at the basement of her bare-naked brain again, whilst threatening her very own undeniable happiness
A far-reaching, hidden, bleeding thistle-torn grows and yearns and finally earns it all
In the place where her inside-out, rip-worn, mouth filled with silver-tooth bullets lies
Which attempts to garner the rag-doll truth – the only girl who could, and absolutely should, own the whole wide-world ‘cept of course for her unquenchable paramilitary investment
To the pause for fraught thought cause of derogatory description, and she wears a cloaked dagger held against her cold-shoulder
Listens to no-one else whilst whistling and whispering at anything and anyone who will let themselves feed upon, right-the-way-round-about, her juiced and flagrantly narrow-minded soul
Shallow alabaster bitch creating fashionable excuses from derelict fiction – there’ll be the whispers and whistles again
Chinese by way of Transatlantic d-i-v-i-s-i-o-n
Enthused to wholeheartedly refuse to please the other most intrepid, interloping, scatter-ashed aside lopsided person
Always a man and never enough
Always pummel-driven at the break of his eye-line
And always, always, always abruptly inept at being recklessly r-e-a-l – resolutely inescapable if she will fail meet to him at the hoped-for centre of two twin breaths
Midst the heavily nocturnally estranged heat of the desirably sexual San Franciscan Sun – far too sensuous to ever envelope
Return-to-sender, if you will let yourselves do us such a humongous favour
Reinvested til twisted agonisingly, perilously, damn-right disgustingly within our screaming heads for analytical industry
We see her… but we sure-as-shit don’t ever really get to feel for her
Let alone let themselves alone to be never near her and ever. again.
She. Is. Not. Real.
But for the whip-smart thrust of the trusted brush..