Even if there are many more others. Where is this unsaid, underlying, undying devotion? Hardly any more self-explanatory than that. How’s about it absorbed itself at the base of the bathtub again? A place for grounding yet unsolved, -resolved responses. Wherein he will forever attempt to move the infantile makings of his immovable hands. Hardly this nonchalant, ageless ambiguity any more than the last obliterated person was left to singularly fend for themselves. And the lukewarm water washes all of the ways over. A crumbling, eviscerated body of waste and want-not. Of both utter contempt aside unshakeable bouts of compulsive misery – born to be bleeding. To waste wartorn blood. To be a carbon copy cutout of the other thirsty person only brutally brutalised, first-hand abandoned.The 12th round, the tongue-tied, the once-upon-a-masterstroke-individual, try as it might to fight with its plain-spoken fisticuffs of cranium-trained his. Wrestled from the rotting soils of his unkempt imagination yet, still, overwhelmingly instilled. As best that it shan’t…. Can’t ever manage to count itself lucky, to forge a singular pathway from platitudes aplenty of a calculated kind of persuasion. Heaven-sent, only it appears rather realistically meek this time…. All bandage-wrapped and sophisticatedly self-anointed – abruptly, painstakingly, placed back together by involuntary development. Almost but never quite there to stand forth and fragrantly witness…

When wide-eyed, locomotive resilience tends to fetching an infatuated source of its own – of course it does, and has to have done all along!! All egg-shelled passageways lead him back toward the insulting face of deplorable boredom. Couldn’t but… And with it all of the tapered time in the whole surface of the sinking hot sun, only none of the scintillating comeuppance this time. The concentration is off by a billion degree heat and he really ought to pen a tremendous thousand dollar tome and hope that it won’t suffer and soften within the eyes of the next cradled generation. All about the tragedy that trapped atop led him wayward and immediately right to here. Vitriolic. Literally, is this his bare-naked instance of mundane movement… Of mesmerising futility met with an unnerving, unswerving, air of hand-dragging veracity?

He holds this uproarious tome, yet in all likelihood will most probably forget, how to place these racing words at a resolute place. Captured unfairly and just like that of an unpaid method actor – forced to pretend only it hurts him all the more.

Or is it, perhaps, his lividly estranged insistence to fail each way which he turns to pause and finally falter that burst his belonging bubble in the beginning of his each and every next collapsing early a.m. reawakening of the salutation syllable? What will it take, though…!? Really. To somehow, God only knows how, make an alarming difference midst this the deadening, deafening, perception with wings willed restoratively upon? And the mind’s eye is, once more, sent demented with being precisely useless this time. He will whisper within a stressed breath to augment that shrinking syllable, “No point in trying to be so very perfect anymore. To be perfect is to hurt”.

Two inevitably disguised parts of the same repulsed man, which now sit equally still and conscientiously apart, as the harsh, barbaric surrounds of the paralysed and highly commendable growth of the poisonous underground. With gigantic branches enduring to thread till severed themselves neatly. And near the bristle of the porcelain breeze. Where nobody dares go anymore – the good and the downright worse than never before. Lonely sons of hijacked ghosts of their own fractured souls, only they are the sole owners of their own worst mistakes, own cradled and crippling shapes, a distasteful layering of their own misshapen identities. Maybe. A rush of blood is not ever enough to shake back into life these screaming delineations.

Hell, no!! Fury pours. Hath but an unknown word, unknowing territory, an unknown universe with no place left to go – for this is the inaccessible man-child who watches himself fall for free. Into insignificant forgings of cursed forgiveness. These are the bones that were stolen to be broken. And it has all of it been haphazardly happening midst untouchable gold-dust. The ferociously contagious choke-hold of a lifetime, so much as a strife-time, some might beg themselves and learn at saying. That it is simply not fair but that it still shocks to rock and shall palpably apprehend the best of them there people when they were not looking forward rather than back at themselves. “Oh, if only I could go that one way, which way is it, though?!” He has to bathe, battle and ask. Can we not simply see that he is drowning right here!!! Just one such another unanswered question posed bluntly toward every other able-bodied person sitting way out there with their astonishingly untainted perspective at satisfactory hand.

An ear-aching imbecile, a natural-born belly-scratcher – all of his past principals taken from him and all in the formidable blink of an inexplicably forlorn moment. When everything falls heatedly away at precipitous speed… like a hyperbaric butterfly put upon wildfire… Pulled from its whimpering daisy-chains. It lost a piece of its own emotive, precariously controlled substance. And, now, forever carries with it undisciplined bouts of far-reaching intimacy. Needlessly, reminiscing ceaselessly, whilst predominantly attempting to problematically reach… For the other side of a rose-scented contingency. Even if he has it, all awhile prudently embedded in each falsified smile.

Emblematic, hardwired metaphors pose the most ulterior threat in his desirous world. Because most, if not all of them, are the only real reasoning that he will fully get to let himself interpret. And these are the very same secluded people who won’t dare it to pray for these kinds of disruptible things to happen ever again. So it seems… to even be the case in unpardonable point of their favourite-best-nemesis’s, whilst keeping them(selves) distantly captured, condemned and imploringly dislodged. Held miraculously within the bottle-fed regions of their field strength. If only he could, though.

Open that bottle and expose his old woes. Set flame to the sambuca-sized hole in his aimlessly expressive heart. Does he stay the same way by his failing at changing? Yes, he drinks to cease the explosively repulsive thinking too many times to count himself back in yet again. Confirming one such acidic, insipid, cutting-edge walkway to soothe the celestial soul once more.

Too many ways to stub-toe and go… Berserk. Before the one-millionth fall to face, from imaginative grace. And he will save it all. His last round of rip-roaring gratitude for the shape of the gaping hole which left itself purposely within the rage of his next bitter-bound page. Unlucky thirteen and he’s been attempting to become a disgraced and disgruntled vanguard for the latter part of his predetermined life.

Kind eyes with nowhere left to proceed to next. Ultimately, the untimely man who got inside of his own head till left itself irreparably vexed. Even she manages to turn his heart over and immeasurably back into a multi-faceted heptathlon of sexually insufficient sorts, bouncing about his unmade bedsheets again and with nothing left but for the dirt of desire. Imaginatively standing at the bare-naked spread of his disenfranchised legs.

Born for a different time, crawling within the satisfied hands and mind of a diffident person, perhaps?
Time to both analyse and paralyse that falsified smile yet again… for himself and no-one else.

And, just like that of the blue-blotted horizon, he’s been watching it all from the far-reaching safety of his next great life – mind’s eye, finally, celestially, upper-ground steal.

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