that yellowing handkerchief – battered at the hatches of ultimate disgust and needless clarity – a fatty artist sees one such singularly suggestive way
Another rip-torn realm of creative middle-thought, ought to recklessly feel it this one such time – a sneaking light at the edges of a tunnel
Tending to patriot gain and visceral games midst delicate and decidedly dilapidated vision – as much a persnickety poet as a pained painter
The crossed crucifix appears real
Here he is, untimely at being discerningly alone – holds a bothersome brush in one hand, a forbidden pen-spill some place else
This constant need to feel fearless, nothing about anyone but only himself – seems we got ourselves a drifting dreamer, ladies aside mental men
We’ve been waiting with eyes and minds wide opening
And only his own need never apply
Again … he lies at the hidden in-between
Lost. At being reckless and real.

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