if carlsberg did disasters

the demented mole man – soul-drunk and heavy holds his own scope for alcoholic hostage
lounges, wavers, meanderingly alters his seriously set-in-stone situation

above the earth beneath the grain, sits claustrophobic and dastardly entangled – begging to breathe, begging to be – welcomed back-in to the shape of the situational cocktail party…

and, then, she suddenly sets a brand new scene – namely unofficial whispers placated with the submerged serendipity of her sweet Valentine kisses twisted and neatly tattooed atop of this emaciated, emasculated man

Of many hands
For the ‘dirty parts’ of him tarred upon her hollowed-out soul-for-survival from

Here to everywhere, namely these duality veins do be sprinting, racing… playing unmatched and liquefied catch-up

with the other person’s favourite best regret… left to swim and linger (p-o-i-s-o-n-o-u-s-l-y)