1The beat of her ribcage
2cries sweet, fondness.. lullaby
3And an unquantifiable level of earmarked success
4can cause this oneday-someone to tilt their chair-both-tethered, flitting face
5upward uttermost against –
6The window-sill of passing, still, and a jaded parade of pockmarked people
7This particular tilt takes two people baby –
8and it will have to have been these crushed and cucumber-cool ice-cubes which can earn their dominant place amid uncertain discomfort
9Southern by all accords of which.. liquid, please?!! –
10cause his altering ego to stillen itself till left haphazard and kaleidoscopically free –
11to reach both roam a musical room
12Of wannabe peoples
13The singer with no cordial-colour left, except only ever of course for the lonely oldman who offers her his very own soul
14for the sake of aMidnightKiss..
Welterweight and wearing one another’s fondest unofficial wigs
15namely two drifting frames of agonized insignificance/secretive magnificence which walk (and talk) meandering and away
Cancer-free only bearing all of these scars cut across the scream of their faces
16Up until middle-aged man from start ends up ten drinks in, hard to think in one fine and straight, narrow.. line, pl=ease!!
17Make these nauseating failings disappear, not jeer and giddy him on again like a distasteful (tasteful to some, of course) and crazy imbecile.