Right by the distorted consortium of the lady bug’s eyes. Lightning seeded upheaval contrary to populist opinion.
For complete disenfranchise / here she will sensuously sit, an inordinate mess of mightily mixed-up pettifogs, clearly, yet equally as chipped as the crystal glass persuasion from which she radiantly sips.
Transforming her universally soiled backstory from hazardously surreal to universally pleasing.
And, yet – somehow, anyhow… f**k knows how, really – she carefully proceeds at prolonging, with a stinging tale of foretelling caution, whilst her manicured, San Franciscan, tram-bashing hands attempt as best they shan’t ever manage.
To archive and achieve at serenely breaking the bristling nature of the borrowing brush, for she is the malcontent literary artist who barely has to work her worth into righteously riotous reckoning again.
Wherein rip-worn, lip-sworn supernatural reality dances and drinks it all in midst natural-born factuality.
And those sources of Confucian become gloriously befuddled into nervosa nirvana again.
This inescapable nocturnal necessity which still insists upon claustrophobic-ally creeping endlessly, miraculously, fair outright vividly within.
The tremendous tailspin for procedure of her cushion-hungry brain, disparagingly indeed.
She smokes a ‘how’s-about-it’ blunt and the worlds open on up –
The exact same one that has been spontaneously attempting to specifically trek the snow-peaked regions of her burning mind till the reaching ends of impending doom fail at failing for their foreclosing selves.
At standing upright and markedly, marvellously, appropriately steady-faced and beatnik brave
Seems she has been the skiing, scheming, attending mouthpiece to a billion other inter-sprinkled people.
Therefore, none too much of her a dime-a-dirt-infused-dozen anymore …
Although, her soul has to bathe and bask, superficially ask it.
About all of the oncoming details of her posthumous approval… but will they still bend and break, save her a place.
Within the inner reaches of their ten dollar graves with those who took money with the pleasure they gave… Cohen says they would, so, really, they should.
A million miles ahead of her imagined self, yet she still realises their bare-naked need to delve like nobody else has done before… s-l-o-w.
Till their eyes and smiles and minds catch kite, creatively collide. A ladder back to Everywhere for them.
Maybe if they saw the genius then she would not proceed at being that genius?
And their breaths reading it steady and sturdy
Same as a locomotive train
Which nestles with the stricken authenticity of the foreboding commotion, hardly thst handsome but forever attempting to derail the inevitable