A code word – a whole array of constant creation makes roundabout, sellout sense of itself

Prolonging the plagiarised happiness and a disobedient artist sits – steady, even evangelical at being rather real

Living upon coffee and flowers, try as they might not to wonder what the weather will be like this time, cry-baby-cry – try as they might, these black honey-choking dreams, silver-surfing girls who belong inside of a movie and nestle their forever breeze near the Hollywood atmosphere steers itself clear

There go his ego-arisen dreams …
A set – these rip-torn, colour-steady assets – of screaming, scamming, about-to-be scramming utensils prepares itself for this early-a.m. chaos

The never-ending, caressing, crescent-shaped fixation with wound-about time – keeping themselves exactly wherein they both want to think and let themselves vividly be

Flair versus fuksake functionality … and blame it all on me

And, finally, the mistakes amidst heat-arisen sacrificial lambs to the slaughter forms her from detrimental fiction all over again – and all of it invitingly turns itself justifiably toward a phoney way of sleight of armoured hand – is this really what appears to happen whenever the wolf-pack sits in sabre-tooth waiting?

We have to bend a listening ear and endlessly ask .. has it all finally been forgiven? And whenever will we begin to place a red-ribbon upon our favourite failures again?