The secret of his endurance is a whiskey-sniffing, birds n’ the bees kind-a misshapenly thing
No-one will
truly find the one
These over-enthusiastic, proud-as-punched city-central dumps, a tremendous vestigial villa on the peripheral pieces of the paralysed side of an over-penetrating brain

And a t-i-g-e-r roars whilst his eyeballed stare starts to pour, spitting within the edges of the soft sun while he hits those typewriter’d quays of thousand-mile his

And these parallel perpendicular people do indeed lean in and whisper and say that they do like his works, his specially well-sensuous stuff
It is all of it tending tremendously toward the colossal ink n’ think, sink farther, farther, farthermost within the uncomfortable spill
like clock,
and pedantic people at being deliriously, lethargically crazy
Mockery midst undulating isolation

That grandfather winds himself right the way up, up, and agonisingly away at prey, play-pretend, tell him a dirtier than thou joke and shut yourself the fuck up

Til we will finally, inevitably, fair invitingly take ourselves to incredulously see – a roll of the sickening, quickening of the dastard-handed dice and watch. The witnessing of uttermost contempt aside bashfully praised existence

Pained at being a g-e-n-i-u-s – none of it is r-e-a-l but rather wrecking ball seedless and losing their sullenly suggestive souls

And now he keeps a ten-year-old-boy in a ten-foot cage who writes his favourite stuff, c-o-l-l-a-b-o-r-a-t-e
This is nothing and atop everything can’t they simply see

One such way in-and-terrifically-around-about
to the other deafening, lessening side of a bloody-assed aside kaleidoscopic, inescapable portal. To next to nowhere good and all of it sad at being b-a-d

For fine art and specifically well-driven portraiture
All of these young blonde diked things he dreams of up inside of his paralysing blindedness
Digress and park your thoughts for a while and seriously. Shut. The. Hell. Up. Again – for you have indeed become yourself a man who will dance no less enthusiastically insufficient at being

He is decidedly bored again – the madder he is the more obvious it appears to be to other unattached people

And this stale general, generous pen is appearing to stand staunch and upright at being. A monstrous monster all up on upon its dilapidated own.

It is all of it. Yours and snide-eyed Ours.
Wine please, at the shake of the quake of the nerve-ending – nervous ending – and make it matter the very most and meticulously up inside of my malnourished brain

Perchance perhaps daft and disputably constrained, estranged estimated concentration midst momentary relapse and he is daft to the constant and creative touch of utter angst within
H-i-m, he breaks a man in half with his motherfucking strenuous play, pray-pretend pen

When he suddenly gets to slowing the pace and thinking, that maybe the best, the beast, is in fact. screaming Against. Him.
Against his gain

Just who the fuck are all of these weird, weird women in weird, weird houses that keep asking him to speak with his wicked tongue – both inside and inner within all of them!!?