She is an etched-sketched, stretched-thin masterpiece with manicured fists for fingers and at the emerging moment that that conversationally correct, circumspect typewriter breathes is the maternal moment that they will somehow see… It finally safe to bring with her resolute reconfigured ribbon a piece of sanity back to belonging again

About to break down the glass-charred barriers and to generously give brand new birth of reapproval to the breath – the cross-firing death – of a brand new day which begs from crystal clear beneath

Their holocaust feet – that they are more so these polished Polish soldiers rather than any bit really Austrian – tying their untied shoelaces at the bothered divide and lying with their dirt-surface faces upon the soil of their stolen grounds, lying miserly upside-down and wishing, wishing, still motherf**king wishing…
Like a bat out of hell and about to invaluably embark and posthumously, none-too-humorously unearth their worshipping orbit, turn it upon its crash-landing head

For a little piece of transatlantic, transgenerational sincerity everyone knows only
One such way amidst the nocturnal swipe of a lifetime, life-crime

Been writing for all of the seen-to-be wrong entire reasonings only no-one knows it only ever her treasured self-worth will solemnly, sizably, adamantly believe…
That it has all of it undeniably been

One helluva mismanaged thing which still will beat itself up into mismatched colourings because the few who do lie will be the few who have no shredded nerves, no speakable evidence, left to be questioned ever again

Oh, but look for yourselves
At the pretty little silver faces of their pretty little make-believe pennies
Processing something from absolutely nothing

Bargaining uncontrollably with the cyclical shape of themselves, themselves, themselves…
And they will continue on until to matter less means to merely matter the most in the frozen-faced sound of the whole of the hole in the guitar-like shape of the acoustically prearranged universe

Supposed to be there, they say, the souls of forgetful singers standing disgruntled within

The lying attire of transparent soldiers who had no other chance but for riotous reckoning
Broken and left metaphorically, metaphysically alone only this time it all falls in line, in time, with the swollen-faced, unknown words of the smart-ass poets that have been playing with the shape to make it feel all of it real

When, really, they know no more than any of us than to be sizeably able at being desirably capable of holding the imagined shape of a descriptively suggested grenade, inside of the typewritten transcript of our freeing feelings
And permittedly placing them feelings into substantial words of surrendered reckoning which will still grab and stand for themselves

Marvellously upright and wound-up improper

No-one asked for this, not one bit, not one single paternal person, not even if they paralysed their eyes and lied to their minds… like it has been done to their grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s lives all along

Yes, one man’s temper might rise whilst another attentively attends to itself at sophisticatedly freezing the shape of the pain in place of the hopes for the lives of next great generation

Of Mismatched pretenders and unholy ghosts and so the paraphrase goes at attempting to explain itself yet again… mismanaged soldiers and remembering their Childers back upon the dry land

Doing handstands in the soiled sand and smoking putt-putt poison-faced emblematic cigarettes, swimming in a place where they really do feel their hearts could have been

Climbing the inside of their lungs and bouncing on over

Seems they’ve been disappearing on in through the smoke screens inside of their minds and for one last time attempting to call it all ‘An American Dream’

Taking themselves upon a trip upon a magic, swirling ship till simply forgetting the pistol shots which ring out inside of their ears – wherein the barroom fights made the real wars look like romantic letters home

Middleweight contenders for the falling surround of the about-to-be chosen bouts of twelve round hidden delirium which reintroduces itself

To the people that get to call themselves post-traumatic stress

At least this way they are taking to trying at taking some kind of trouble in going back to meet the faces of their flashbulb friends