The hard worker, wrought-iron, ought to be officially baptised all over again – these shy people are plain simply from another planet altogether
Aren’t they, though, all of them (all) together anymore, or rather just these living seething catch-a-monkey playthings!? Wraparound wherewithal and probably problematically willing to cause creatively disingenuous miscalculation – wherein all of the lent-bent boxes get bashed into sweet misinformed smithereens again
And he walks, she talks, whilst tunnel-vision precision opens up brand new lands, undecidedly opportunistically inopportune routines and plagiarist paragraphs brought back to fulfilling acoustic reckoning
Eventually, it took thirtyfive years to fill-in the fuksake blanks (either way)
We have to, have to, HAVE TO = laugh out loud, though, don’t we just mustn’t we manage at mattering someday so very soon?
Sits here with their sneering beers, whilst watching the moon moves inner-ward toward the nocturnal eye of the universal storm about to overheat ‘n’ warm/warn us all ’til left decidedly violently dead (again) – bed head prepared, ready and all of the kaleidoscopically inescapable dreamings shall barter and inevitably take purposefully poised precedence so very soon as when…
She twists her beautiful Barenaked body atop of her dimpled knees, please
So very soon as when
He willingly proceeds with nervous caution – ‘TOO HOT TO HANDLE’
* “to roll up one’s sleeves” is to refer to someone as willing to work hard, whereas this particular person in this particular poem-piece works so very hard naturally, that the sleeves were never even necessary in the first place, it seems – therefore, they appear to have, perhaps, been “Born Sleeveless”.