Imagine that
A moment of absolute happiness – slow, slow time; shy, shy individuals with imbecilic creation

Raging, recklessly real yet forever tainted with no direction but for utter misdirection

A thing of misshapen beauty – bound for agonised normality, these authenticated people

Stealing til magnificently non-sensical – a pock-marked, tiny little sadistically attired studio apartment wherein

Harpooned by outlandish degrees of nervous misbehaviour sidled detrimentally aside break-speed boredom

It will take an affable industry of equally charming people to kill them all – just that the comedic value seems to have disappeared midst the crawl back to earth

But he’s still here, there, absolutely everywhere; still bargaining upon an ethereal prayer and with his favourite utensil for his favourite friend

Leaking to bleed by the gnawed at brim of its colossal being, breathing of its own hopeful accord

Telling himself again and over again: to write Bad til it all makes final sense – there’s something magic but he cannot question its origin nor bounce-about originality

No room for ego

Maybe it was all supposed to be: sink til you swim

A life’s been waiting

For him to fill in the lapse in stolen concentration, wasted conversations

This daft delinquent dreams of perfectly preordained promiscuity, the kind which lends itself to after-cigarettes sidled detrimentally aside sips of the Devil’s holy water

No going back but for being here again