Live/life/over-elongate and pontificate at the places where they prepare themselves to forever play
The pace is set to soar – sore, rather – the BMX apoptotic dictionary knows not a way / architectural painting on its way to wound-up worldwide infamy 
 
Falling in-love with all of these tremendous things til, then, she estranges herself
 Heavenly like upturned hell
Hughie Montgomery has been acting rather strange; prearranging, perhaps, til insistingly re-arranging his love for just one fellowship girl – abrupt and firing from the sordidly misplaced hip-face 
 
Raging red ribboned hormonal industry – reckless at being distantly resolute: people, please, fall in-love with him 
 
Every second day …
 And here she stands shy sadly awry Emerelda – his far better lesser intrigued half of this miraculous at being a majestically marvellous couple of eye-soars
* this is then –
it is the same as before
Or the other time
or the time before that.
here’s a cock
and here is a cunt
and here she/he steers
 
This will be where they are not really winning anymore, soon as the President persists in ignoring their telephone calls – walking on upside-down walls and stealing these flagship kisses til nobody knew him anymore
 
And all of them undeniably, direly, second upon his high-flying lists of things to fail to do … 
 
Hughie sat her down and told her all about a miraculous once-upon-a-blinding-time: how to feel the inner insides of his weary and scurrilous uncertainty again  
 
Feels. That. Taste. For. Him, please.
 
The lippy, tongue-tangled kid who shall endlessly wrestle with oneself near her photo-shopped corner again
 Failing at perfecting that simian stroll golden like a self-made rocket to the shape of the fishing-rod moon
 
And do they even know how remote-controlled and artificial they are being?
 Be quiet and confessional, and be oh so fucking careful so soon as she backs that horse that will and shall, and could and should resolutely be good for nothing else but g-l-u-e
*Bukowski