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

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