And Radiohead listens weakly, yet still plays vehemently overhead with the Karma Police for her favourite best-friend – this is what Daddy’s dearest will never get, forever
 
This mental, metal-faced, necessity is killing me… Perched someplace sacrosanct and captured somewhere religiously between
 
The eye-locked warrior and his savoured nemesis, namely that of the sophomore princess captured visually within… All of he, maybe
 
Barely there anymore though and brought back to basic nothingness… Messing with the rest, a penny for her ten-thousandth troublesome thought and he really ought to square away this dilapidated caravan shoe-box existence, barely pays for anything any more than the next
 
A game of soft-handed backgammon and she expresses her singularly successful loneliness again – with soccer shorts, pop-socks and Mommy’s finest neck-breaking necklace pearls at the reckless ready, she’s been recess-reading and with a green plastic watering-can at hand – still making love, two jumps over she and we are going to be tasting the tethered nether region while we pay for their evening supper…
 
No more rational thoughts anymore, warrior boys – this is my fat-filled, teenage delinquent, daffodilian princess, rather glamorous at being rather undeniably wrong at being upside-down and ebbing gregariously toward garrulously real
 
Don’t you simply think that she looks and feels a little like the real thing, strolls on in and steals the unforgettable taste while we get ourselves to generously remembering
 
Her very own mother once upon a shoe-box-filled imprisonment just like She