Between audience and stage, an audible uproarious sort of sentiment remains awfully gentile – Cats and Les Miserables of yesteryear’s past forgiveness, just must start all over again
Catch him in the cradle and make him amount to some-thing.
Play-pretend and make it make mammoth sized sense, please
Tease and turn the other sophomore cheek – sp-eak, eke and etch it out from under-beneath nowhere all that special anymore
Heartbeats, children’s memorable hopscotch feet restored one thousand per time by the shake of that stoned, battered and bruised curtailment stage
Set upon inner-city dilapidation, oh so very extraordinarily purpose-fully.
She is just about ready again – to whisper near the breeze of her favourite best people’s ultimate mind-games.
“This,” she says as we stand on a perilous walkway to Heaven held at monstrously noised and orchestral hand, “is my living, seething leg-ac-y.”
Why not welcome yourselves inescapably in and see. The extracurricular element of one writer’s living, seething, set-in-stone legacy.
This purposefully focused r-age. Although, the years have been awe-fully kind to him.
Matcham’s mighty brick wall, built for ’em all.
Fun-da-mentally fucking marvellous, to be motherfucking marvelled at.
Fucking Pen
Scene-steal of a lifetime. This is Brian with a Why!? on the shoulders of toff-nosed literary gi.ants. See what he did there?
Pause your round-of-applause because he is about to break the meter.