An iconoclast basks, wherein more of the very same has to mean more than nothing at all anymore – welcome to Fire Island

All of them wayward insane – these dutiful disasters with meandering, shrieking, prodigious industry where their borrowed heart-strings used to belong to themselves and to barbarically breathe

Strong, stronger sonsaguns – son’s of one meticulously play-pretend mother or other – and utterly enticed by what’s entirely intensified, gilded in explosive realms of quick-handed gold

Shoulda been, oft than not coulda been’s who sumptuously sit to simply see it all fade misshapenly away from itself

If a picture paints a thousand words then what has to be said for the juxtaposed reasoning, wherein the tending pen fends for its settled self

Comfortably numb by way of plagiarised and imperfectly perfected persuasion, these shrinking-, thinking-violet, adolescent sensations with innumerably tethered fingernails – overgrown and altogether rather implosive, trembled to the bone – masterfully intertwined by proposed estimations which have been blissfully scriptured via our very favourite and best-kept sentiments

When to be a simple six-foot tall child was twice as nice as life – utilised fresh-air where their brains are supposed to be, proposed to bleed

Sent to
Where there is a will there shall have to be – this fair degree of uniquely driven yet undoubtedly under-qualified animosity, built back together from…

Borrowed and deceptively delirious belongings, these surround sound, sensationally set summer surroundings of a dawn’s mid-evening instance, blessed by the red-cut ribbon carried within a haphazard imaginarium of whip-smart dreams

Whistling til mesmerised and marvellously purified by the wide-eyed winds of shadow-casting time

There is a tome in this one, somewhere, somehow, anyhow

Pristinely and causing the wonderful wonders of the barking mad world to make sensual sense again… again… a Neanderthal necessity in typified and comparatively correct sidled fightfully aside controversial gaining

This six-foot tall, parcel-strapped, suggestively handsome individual has grown up right now

And he who brings the anomaly of creation into righteously, unthinkably riptorn play can own the earth at the fabricated worth of its guilty-edged livelihood

Beautifully, manipulatively hoodwinked
No care anymore but for invisible care all of its silhouetted and makeshift and believable own – petrifyingly prolonged and carefully cutthroat by way of derogatory design, kindly enthused, entrusted, and kind upon only ever the treasured versions of their better selves

Have to ask, is this the mesmerically, artistically-emblemed miracle born by truthful, routed way of disheveled readiness?

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