The heel click of the century
Comfortably creative, and she sees all these tremendously high-wiring things
A hidden ear-piece, the chosen one
An adolescent maleficent on hopscotched happiness – all stresses left to one side – fair desirably (so)
Undeniable eyes – marvellously well constrained and uttermost fixated all over again and red-ribboned at being rather reckless and real while amounting to invitingly, inevitably making sensual, sellout sense
Of. Itself.
And for one last time
An over-imagined marriage in an orange mangrove, the only thing in any room that she tends to getting to letting herself move within …
She is the first on my immaculate list of things to tick-off and to do …
Pressed lovingly against the bare-naked wonderings and ramblings of these triangular winds of time, all of it singularly mine … suggest just so much, please, little lady
Driven to drive, these oblong, spectacularly bohemian-fired eyes of hers shall make me fall in-love with her every second sensuous day – the in-between still needs to twist its sordid shape back into restless play
Somehow, anyhow, managing to rekindle and relight, realign it all over again
Til finally standing up-straight and reminding herself to back a horse that is good for glue and nothing much else for it
And all of this amidst this sensationally spinning and diving, cloud-spangled event
What made me behave that way, using the words I loath to say!?
Holy shit he love her eyes, his favoured window-spattered existential demise, whilst the rigorous research takes uttermost precedence again
Just cannot wait so soon as she mistakes him for strangers – a dot in the violated crowd of starry eyes
Surprise, surprise, young magnificent life
All. Of. The. Wine. In. The. Whole. Wide. World. Won’t. Return. His. Spontaneous. Soul. To. Sender.
Back to basic necessity once more – til she feels the lean of his ethereal breath upon the broken egg-shells of her anguished being – she’s afraid of everybody and that will need for itself to be happily okay – until she isn’t vacant anymore
Baby you gave me bad ideas, baby you’re engaged to the shape of the misshapen heart that starts right there … and, above all else, you’re the perfect waste of time on heavenly earth as the ticker-tape parade tangles its word-wide-web again and he searches for his final face …
Blame it all on me, I really don’t care
And remember this, a kiss is but a kiss, until … you little feet twist and meet your face halfway