The actual hand that he carries is quite, shall I lend myself toward gently saying it – old and roughly-cut, albeit an undeniable piece of every single next diamond-encrusted thing –
At playful peace, pace, with every other living thing?
Hardly, in fact… stands as if it were
As it were, the patiently pretentious years had ferociously faded to grasp upon the steady-faced reality, and the words were but for upsetting, round-table versions of trans-generational weapons, amalgamated and gained from extracurricular inactivity
This man. Although, he has a hand, which has to have been far more than the most of many a manly man made up – one kind of another and the sinking delirium which drips at the diving-board tip
Of the two tethering nails, swarmed right by a pair of constrained thumb and forefinger
Is begging, begging… begging itself
To swim, back up beneath, the banality of the thirsty surface again – to finally, longingly, lonesomely believe in belonging with something so very considerate
Like a little big fond fish placed confidentially inside of a small little plagiarised pond lent sympathetically toward the ghost of yesteryear’s pufferfish words
All bubbled-up, toiled in bloated trouble – abstract as shit on a stick to somewhere cyclical, seasonal, and fast
Is this the bargaining nature of his impersonal happenstance come to fruition… to the banks of reasoning, rather? Wandering, steadily gripping, forever flitting, flickering and coping
With the corrupt mechanisms of the constant air
Of alarming insufficiency
Way Up There
Of these old and torn distress signals of theirs
These emotively repressive, uncontrollably explosive metaphors which lie thanklessly overhead and rather recklessly buoyant at that
When archaic carries with it an undeserved stature, so it seems to be the case in inauthentic point – those sharks that bask in all the glory of another inedible world
All together
Of, still, a resounding inhumanity that abounds all round but for the final saving-grace guidance by
The candidly correct man who still carries with him…
An eerily disguised, distinguished, awfully disfigured mind of many less than she thinks for herself
Blindingly suggestive and comes with it an awfully secondary Aside –
Bends and cracks the sprocket of a rocketing arthritic left knee and proceeds
To the right, at being all kinds of wrong
At stretching, sketching out his own salient salamander arm amidst
The tender, gentle tease of the borrowed fishing-line/finishing line, maybe?
Should I really caress and kiss my creator this time, bringing myself with it and mercilessly back toward him
And with it comes the eagle-eyed salutation – that behemoth bend, the erstwhile break, an inordinately fabricated brush with prolonging death
Of the brand new inescapably unapparent line… I am fascinated by people who work with water, but far rather see them taste the glimmer-faced shoal of my soul
Imploring them to be professional with this – all nets at the ready
At the cardinal collar of the kiss