He brought his serious people with him to where it might make some kinds of heavenly sense again and they will stand right here with their miserable fingers wishfully intertwined, some so terribly inter-mingled

He’ll need to make a deal with God just like Kate Bush did it so very well for herself

Indeed we do breathe right by the demonic bridge of dreaded dreams, and it can feel, it can feel… it can begin to feel all a little bit like it perhaps should have been

Anything else to say and they shall have to say it all via these muted smiles and with pedestrianised people sitting right by their settled sides

This has all of it been an unnatural disaster by many, many unenviable accounts and we are attempting to be something sensational when really we are not

His beatnik bleeding brain tricks and drains itself dry by the glad-ragged summarise

Of a half-empty lifestyle – he may well wear this hundred dollar pin-striped attire with flies swarmed right by the monocled eyebrow, yet his livid mind will not allow for itself to find any which way home again

Wherein it feels something exactly like he figured it might – flighty as fuck and hell on tepidly hot wheels, the screaming juxtaposition steals to recapture, rescripture his vivid imagination like only it can and preposterously shall

And he falls upon his misshapen knees again – carried by supernatural screams of ceaseless delirium – and catches a mound of kaleidoscopic grass – slivered til silvered in contagious green – and places its asking shadow against the tilted edges of the savoury sun
Til watching it bring the whispering wind back to life again

Yes, he seems to see a bright white heaven hanging over him yet all that he can ever bring himself to account for is his every next sin

Didn’t Bowie say that he colours exactly what he sees

Holy shit, she’s afraid of everyone again,  and this whispering pen really does appear to be her only heart-string left