Born slippy and it kinda feels
Rather windswept and riotously real – abhor/adore the absolute recluse in She: Steady to the bare-knuckle breeze.
Please, let it be momentarily deceiving, free these undeniable juices within me and begin to freeze my constant sorrow, borrowing a multi-coloured piece of my wind-trapped everything, motherfucking anything, release… this magical promiscuity which flees the captor’s grasp too oft than not to count itself better than that.
Pitter-patter feet and I am starting to spring with your every single next brand spanking new refreshingly reimbursed step – fret not for my every single next brand spanking new breath is tied right by the makings of your breakneck-speed brain.
She looks so damn perfectly pretty soon as she falls asleep atop of me – and we wine ‘n’ dine and comfortably combine the time ’til we are all of us far better at being bare-naked, upside-frown incredible versions of ourselves.
Just incredulous what she said soon as I touched her tongue with the sides of my mindful over-indulgence, whispered herself to say it, but “we just must make up the mammoth-ly inexpressive differential difference by way of snide-eyed imperfection, don’tcha simply shudder and think to b-l-i-n-k, baby creature?”
Waking up when the coffee is boiled and our adolescently compressed bones are delightfully dying from all of this beautiful pretence which ships our syllabicated shores one more time
Not greater Holocaust, baby-making c-r-i-m-e. WAKE UP TOE-TO-TOE – S—L—O—W
“Dust that brush, daft to the touch, and how’s about you join me right now for a game of multi-purposeful Russian Roulette poker midst all of this rain-drenched, preordained, over-emotive colour.”
Safest to say that there really is no such safe-zone anymore. The manner in which they shaped the souls of our beings to ritualistically/fatalistically breathe … out in the garden where we planted the tree