apprehensive and quick-smart, this violin playing lady with little robins rested right by her red breast of contagion – corrupt and ceaselessly contagious by way of manic divide, musical eye by way of utter recreation lent affably against kaleidoscopic, inescapable, procreation

the slow show, that dab hand, artiste extraordinaire
tools and hiding utensils with sweet, sweet murmurings for whispering heartstrings, sometimes they will snigger – to go and glow and to set the severity of one soul on contrived fire

her mind carries a ferociously well implemented element of utter chaos embedded remarkably within – midst pause-for-thought cause of a lifetime lends itself to a strifetime of absolute fantastical fabrication

the crying man stands shrinking and violently violet-ed into one abrupt and uninterruptedly, intensely, enlarged corner
he is a colour of his own failings – all black offering itself to blue-tilted existence

and yet another umpteenth and coffee-twisted lip tends to divulge a thing of upside-down beauty
this learned thirst earns its own map of worth all by its lonely own
and these brush-stricken, piping hot heartstrings of theirs have been endlessly, devotedly, singing for their pock-marked supper again

just in time before it all goes up in unholy smoke by the mid-a.m. reawakening – steamed pot noodles gently caressed by the break of the light of night and endless plastic forks by way of force-fed misbehaviour

utter irredeemable adequacy – she is an unfinished piece of brilliance that only she feels forever

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