A broken heart, this darting hidden ability – to magnificently adhere
To these multi-syllabic things
Of his, both cherished aside carefully judged
Therein lies a protrusion to solely survive
Specially, specifically, inundated eye-pieces, treacherously tilted to portray this sitting angular and upright jilted old man
Simply screaming, screening, for their whole snide-eyed worth in the monstrously inept world
Of ours
He is working on his own two feet
That seriously interchangeable son of a beaaaatch
With five-hundred wives, he had the time of his young, adolescent, and imaginative life
A day, a scathing 5-minute morning, a sudden and sensuous break of bohemian sun-crackling evening will show him one such way
He is forever bolstered by the free alarm-clock – the crow of the cock
Bed-ridden DJ in his sleep – brings the house down in his dreamscape
So far from actually alone that everything brings something back to return, there appears to be a silkily dressed thief in the nocturnal divide – appointing, anointing, them-self the soul bearer
The blackness of night never lies, stilettos and broken beer bottles, yet he keeps dancing upon his own – the wanderlust maniac with undeniably underlying aptitude, be rude not to lend him a listening ear
Over-elongated and stretched like a Roald Dahl caricature, please, bring it right to the inch of the skies scheming being
If needs be, to twist the sorry soul til imperfectly predisposed
Take me on… he’ll be seriously strong
The words are his world and so soon as a mouthwatering moment, a distant memory, an unforgettable impracticality bends itself back into place to make sense of its singular self again
Will he pick himself back up off the floor
A gain in utter enthusiasm, appears to be that the misbehaviour is recklessly real …
To replicate and snake between the instrumental, incremental, use of these puppeteer wings – sweet disposition
A make-or-break instance of worshipped belonging
A love, a dream, a laugh, a kiss… let it rain, let it trickle, let it posthumously pour, let the tears come down like a chosen waterfall
Waiting for that star to be both borrowed and born – the blinding shine which will ceaselessly create its very own crescendo of hopscotched hope
Wondering, time again, what in the name of Christ on a backward walking bicycle had Ulysses had that he had had not – perhaps how’s about the deftest Dedalus touch?
All characteristics bending over arse backwards to make secondary, tertiary sense again
The irredeemable necessity of the floundering and fucksaked intellectual
He could suck a lemon and get disagreeable bananas by way of utter pro-creation
That’ll be the damn bittersweet retreat crying miserly within
“That’s mine,” as the devil said to the dead policeman …
Remember it well, no law unto a writer, because he knows all of the rules about to be broken
Ahead of themselves
