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

Time again
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 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..