An artist will tend to all of these ludicrous things – one atop another, never quite… together… but rather guised by wildfire.
Just the ample mannerisms that speak of sweet, painstaking delirium, the breaking’s and the matrimony of mere makings which will forever process and reinstil… something comfortable, something stirred outright jovially from ear-achingly within.
And, in fact, they might not need the necessity for themselves to remain all of that good anymore, so soon as they allow for a radiant mind’s eye to catch its time in place, to contend with the dishevelled dancing’s of that oft than not stolen, swollen glance – to reconfigure in a few too many of them their mixed-up emotions, flustered honorary commotions, and then, undeniably of course, but for the durable symptomatic explosion.
In an unasked for matter of silent sanctuary, only ever of course withstanding their nocturnal whispering’s again.
Oh, how the silent, violent, pray-tell sanctuary of mixed-up commotions and exploding ghosts can amount, account, for all sorts of ridiculously otherworldy upstanding diagnostic creation. When their words were worth a thousand living, singing, diving-bell syllables. And this ship will not let itself sink.
Because this is the hard graft, whichever way they see it, get to let themselves feel it, the mediocre nature of the hard sell even if they may wrestle with their kind minds and wish to not admit it. A million paced processes lent problematically near the mapping of their introverted, social-butterfly minds.
Oh, how the juxtapositions swing and pain themselves to mightily realign and realise the error of their ways. Like a wrecking ball tantalised till placed permittedly upon cyclically sound ardour. Attempts to disarm itself, dutifully, reinvigoratingly indeed.
Never admitting it, though, just moving on up for themselves, for their seen-to-be better worth in the whole smiling face of the awaiting world. Whenever that caring person who has yet to mention their mere name walks on in and lovingly tells them that they are good enough, were always good enough, perhaps even always far better than what they saw fit to let themselves see.
As did this ninety-six-years-young leopard-print lady, the girl of the world and then brought right the way back – revelatory so – to the abstaining daughter again. She never hoped to make it in any kind of a successful way uninteresting, simply intriguing.
The beautifully meshed-up terracotta masterpiece who spoke with butterflies by her belly so soon as that handsome man walked by the surface at the door of her love-diagnosed soul. Together, one aside no other, they tended specifically toward bringing peace and tranquillity to its preparatory place of absolute understanding, the hard knocks, the aforementioned hard grafts, the greatest part of it all.
Comfortable that they were, in their very own merriment way of elongated sedation. That will have to have simply been the quiet little instances which stitched them solemnly back together again. He did all of his damnedest to pay for the coin at the face of the beatnik collectors for the colossal size of the rent at fisticuffed hand… whilst she closed her disenfranchised eyes, insisted back upon dancing again… and finally, finally, finally beginning.
To miraculously imagining, all of it, to lovingly fixate fittingly back upon the eager-faced, fashion-forward index finger. The very same dwindling manicured nail fingering which may well have felt itself courtesy of a thousand fond face-forward passionate lingerings.
Of the sworn-in silhouette movements of these adolescently inexpressive modellings. Same girls who are forced to pay their way by the meat and bones of their non-stop complexities and utterly uninviting building apartment complexes at that, all of it rather diluted in severe and upstanding delirium-filled reawakenings.
The concentrated dottings of the Max Mara-franchised eyeliner followed gently right by…. the cross-eyed look of complete disapproval at the pretty little devilish faces of the young pretty pretenders with their buzz-cut tee-shirts tucked into place.
Riotously ripped at the screaming, screening, scamming seams and causing her all kinds of mixed-up emotions, disgruntled collapsing’s of standalone grief. It was brought back together by the resurfacing bridge of the borrowed buttoning until… imagined unfathomably within… the ragged, tagging, ridged and lividly estranged, prearrangement edges of her Rosemary fainting chair.
Yes, the very same appointed, self-anointed one with the floating on up aerial tussle of the glistening, listening, listless grey hairs which proceed her reputation for undeniably challenging herself and only ever her broken boned permittees.
That all of the monstrous moments managed to make singular sense for themselves is a phenomenal masterstroke-poke-fun at the other less able, insatiable faces of the crucifying people.
So that they could get to inevitably, invitingly, knowing it if only for themselves midst their swansong arrival. Coffee in swirling hand and knife-edges cradled at the pierced realignment process of the tabernacle dawn.
And all of this for the crucifying and equally wonderful level of crowded people who would come in their pencil-skirted, polka-dotted droves at the opening at the instantaneously upright welcoming of her manicured hand – the very same one which wears the semi-circumference of his sworn-upon diamond ring, desirably put upon her second-from-last dwindling finger – and shyly, solemnly whisper and ask so very knowingly, for a far more purchasable piece of themselves.
And a little more over a yonder a shined and gleaming shoulder, these imbalanced, stick-thin, Fort Knox models who still appear rather riotously ill-at-ease, seen-to-be decidedly perturbed and bringing with them – the too-common-to-count-itself-in, the discombobulation of the commonplace eating disorder.
No rule of thumb just homespun unruly order but for the silenced way in which they sell the shape of their asphyxiating pain to the size of the devil who stands – neatly attired – at the thinly-veiled grasp of their disenfranchised doorstep. Minus the devil is to be left minus the feel of the fright, that splurging fight for erstwhile forgiveness, forever withheld til wondrously forged into concentrated reckoning yet again.
The little Manhattanite girls who have been figuratively offering themselves hand-fed sandwiches when all that they could ever have ever really handled. Was the sneering, sneezing, sniffing nature of the sheets of sweet cocaine which festered heaven ‘n’ hellishly between.
The making’s, the breakings of, their early-a.m. brains.
Now wherein she exactly used to be, that same old and wisely ten-decade-old lady, a terracotta masterpiece sees no evil and will speak, even in her harshest sharpest hour of tumult aside rigorous concentration, with bouts of exceptional clarity and guided starry-eyed right by – the whipping nature of a most visionary tale of good over people.
She is swimming vivaciously inside all of us, far-reaching and naturally reacting to fine-tooth-comb fabricating.
The finest pieces of us till repeatedly bringing it joyously back to belonging, just you wait and witness to see it for your made-up selves. Isn’t the placement of her make-up just a tiny little piece of it made-up to be ethereal? When one person’s mind is a factory of oddly comforting happenstance and carries with it the gladful bout of knockout actuality.
The story about to be told of the adulthood histrionics of one deliriously wayward lady’s unbridled way.
Surprising to witness, even better to be with. Do you simply recall it all, soon as she took herself to the shredded threshold of her unmitigated industry wherein the other older po-faced fashion-tastic people promised that they would reimburse her for the constant meanderings that have outlandishly made it at the surface of her thirst-laden soul?
Wherein make-believe had no place for this kind of a distinguishable woman who carried reality for her favourite over-entitlement and with it the Metamorphosis roar of her case-studied mouthpiece and all of this pushed gloriously amidst.
The magnificent rearrangement of her models piercing welterweight beauty, she is still, still, still threading neatly and, all awhile, affably led by the singular shape of the welcoming palm which stands at the door of his wrinkled, winking old dancing hand.
They divulged themselves, didn’t they just, in sharing a personal piece of the other person’s peaceful existence, precariously habitual, youth-instilled instances – exploratory and revolutionary insistences firmly met at the middle and pressed firmly together, comfortably so, as though they were these silhouetted people built within the shape of these masterfully red-ribboned hand grenades.
Just do not push too hard on the pin, pl-ease.
All of them wrought-iron reacting to the other person’s finger-bitten portrayal, brought intricately back in from the swollen-faced cold till sitting mesmerised within another such cussing portal.
Of human sacrifice and downright dastard discomfort. Has to, has to, had to be happening, continuing along the map for that aforementioned route to perfection in its most imperfect state of appearance.
She is almost very nearly human again, if only for her fair vanity for the faces and shapes of her favourite people, except for him, only ever to be treasured and worshipped only ever of course. For he was always the greatest living installation of magnificent imprisonment, the constant that she promised herself that she would absolutely be needing. Stealing his ageless gaze, she looks to parade her next great masterpiece in the face of a most theatrical adult who will sit opposite, and still bleeding. By the unmatched brim of his pouring being for her.
Supposes a thing for all of the looking-glass worlds watching way out everywhere. To distantly reimagine and solemnly get to letting themselves believe none of the white-lies about life… that they too deserve it justifiably for themselves. Oh, but where would we be but for the beatnik iron butterflies of this world.