Educated beyond his intelligence… seemingly a simply conceited and arrogant young man with distaste for these amiable people – the cream of Ulster’s upside down crop sitting academically within themselves, “rich and thick” as three pints of juice en-joyce-d Guinness.
“Blagging an’ snuffing, somehow hardly,” – pardon the million dozen dime puns, but this will need to remain something extraordinarily extracurricular – the heavy drinking stream-of-conscience writer, wherein a sleight of sacrosanct, that un-thankful hand in time pardons itself silly, silkily insane yet typically in-control of one’s own material til subtracting and adding the satis-faction by the
Hardly, in fact. Anything other than purposefully “Fanny forgotten aside undeniably a Peter and a persnickety thing,” sneaking posthumously, none too humorously whilst still standing upside-down upon a backward balancing bike in-waiting.
Please realise, realign the mind and see that he has been selling his own soul to reap the inner growth – midst extraordinarily unreserved and extracurricular behaving’s. He does not in fact ever even mean to find himself to be adding the -mis with these decidedly demonic demeanour’s to all of this supposedly so non-sense.
Wherein it all makes drinking, thinking, lean on in further afield meaning til sat right back here at home in sweet retreating Eire. The Catholic population have finally been attempting to push themselves to listen, listlessly.
This is the pinnacle of modernistic prose, just too early/too slow for these shy, shy small-eyed people who still sleep silently within He. Vehemently.
Probably. Ably, so they will twist their unoriginal fingers and say it harder than the next great pretender.
Bare-faced luck intertwined an’ twined with a bankable talent aside driven foresight, and the rest shall have to let itself remain to be
A decidedly roman-tick thing of upside-down beauty encapsulated til serenely, bleeding-ly captured.
“This is pretty much… perfectly perched as it were, and still is…
Gilded in drained glasses of liquidised dreams aside all of these screaming realms in white-creamed written realisation rising near the Top.”
Can’t stop, won’t stop. He’s been writing again… Suzanne.
Is this really the utter failing? Hardly. When Beckett Attempts – a chosen portrayal – portal – into chosen schizophrenia?
A mirroring in mental disintegration. Gent-ly does it.