Fire with fury, running into a wall, are our thoughts too tall!?
And how’s about, sometimes, the wasters becomes the winners a fair while… and with tears near their editorial eye-line
Invitingly, inevitably, almost damn-near eventually whispering it –
Imperfectly implemented soon as her dry-minded lips equate themselves to a savoured shot of neatly misshapen Irish-brand whiskey, ’til she bleeds near the rosy-red edges of their reconfigured listening, listlessly reimbursed earpiece – to taste that instrumental touch yet again
Ocean to ocean midst these bubbling break-point waves of brave-ended creative endeavour – these coursing Luke-to-warm-then-for-it-hot-and-handsome-men have been unequivocally trembling to tear themselves back again…
How’s about her demon-stratively egotistical nature has prepared itself just so very well for these ultimately adventurous motions to place a sprinkle of promiscuous potion nakedly abrupt upon themselves
Poised to make elemental sense yet again
Within the undercurrent arises to broach the follow-ill shell, undeniably thrilled-to-be-right-here-immediately-right-about-now
An eventful, sacrosanct creature is she – heavenly caressed creator that can, and shall, in fact manage to silently instil something quite garrulous indeed
With-in we, let us rip it right the hole way open again and see it pour, pl-ease… bleed
When she prearranges her sugar-beaten face, touches the favourable taste of these brand spanking new strangers which sprint past her juvenile eye-line and right back whereby
These sweetly kissed sweet Suburb-icon streets will mannerly reach inside of our monstrous minds
 Forever coursing on through ’til insurmountably touching the taste of their unwavering speech support – purported unanimously toward
Running into a wall, are our thoughts too tall!? Fire with fury, some of you will see the survival instinct for its plagiarised playful purity…