Donating his humility to the cause, the young wee lad attempts to take himself away from all of this constant chaos – which seems to wish to seethe and treacherously breathe within

A school tight-fitting uniform and he is trying to inform the other less afraid boys, that something, anything, all kinds of many a thing, will have to change

An evil teacher sits in a most concerning way, holding a most viciously insightful glare – to tear one singular boy in three

By the arm, the bone, the reachable limb
A pair of spectacles come down right round at the bridge of the freckled beak – and teacher lends his words to speech

“I am going to make mountains from molehills, dear boy. Until your better friends will come and save you from grace. Nowhere to go, no place left to pray. For, you are my final piece of handheld prey.”

Another string, yet another bow
Bend oh so low. and dutifully behold – for this writer writes. and at quake-neck speed
A flurried touch. and trail of endless curvature and chaos, to vehemently. adhere
To all of these penned things – pained. midst a twisting portal of never enough
Tough-love. will. find a way
Bolstered at being terrifically begotten, the pause… for contractual thought, ought to really bring a level of heartache and swimming upset to
The table. of meandering and meaningful dreams
that yellowing handkerchief – battered at the hatches of ultimate disgust and needless clarity – a fatty artist sees one such singularly suggestive way
Another rip-torn realm of creative middle-thought, ought to recklessly feel it this one such time – a sneaking light at the edges of a tunnel
Tending to patriot gain and visceral games midst delicate and decidedly dilapidated vision – as much a persnickety poet as a pained painter
The crossed crucifix appears real
Here he is, untimely at being discerningly alone – holds a bothersome brush in one hand, a forbidden pen-spill some place else
This constant need to feel fearless, nothing about anyone but only himself – seems we got ourselves a drifting dreamer, ladies aside mental men 
We’ve been waiting with eyes and minds wide opening
And only his own need never apply
Again – he lies at the hidden in-between
Lost. At being reckless and real.
.Be Endlesslee. freeeee
expect a curdled glass of chipped creamed milled milk sitting beside a motivated cigarette – the threat is wound-about and been real
It resists and breaks the shake and creates to make, this domineering aforementioned complication
magnificental sense
aren’t these argent days multiplied by the glimmer and the glare of that knife, another wisely girl says that her posterior has not been out of reach too long a time – insipid sneaky white wine wanting to be much more and magnificent-ally blood-arisen
In prison, her tame brain has imprisoned itself Justinian and zealous – at being reckless it has sensuously seen what is nonchalantly credible – Stanley poses a most moistly aside telescoped threat – easy El Street eagerly breathes again til standing of its only own accord
the teaching is real – a social sociable evening – seen a zillion things indeed, half a shotgun day at play – just fucking attempt to pretend, please release it now and always accustomed
to this, never enough people wound and desirably around, fired eyes that like to give truth a meaningful eyes-wide-shut meaning
Pretty at prey-pretend, gently at seeming delirious – fucking extremity begs to compose and mean drumstick Dixieland everything tuned into inescapable bouts ‘n’ bound by Heavenly
‘Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo’
The psychologist speaks when she is spoken too, the misshapen, mistaken making of Lolita
Constant at being decidedly, eerily cutthroat
At being recklessly r-e-a-l aside resolute and remote-controlled
She sits a wary-eyed individual – a once-upon-an-only-girl, now for all of these people, persnickety if you will let it bother and bodaciously be – meaningful
Ugly at being unsuccessful, the whole darn lot of them
No particularly peculiar rhyme this particularly peculiar time
She has been guided and delightfully ‘guised, a misfit driven altogether (quite) meticulously by
A life less stressed than ordinary-featured
A misbehaving, sensuously well pressed creature of unnatural habitat
She/he loved the motion-picture movies, had to have done so by watching a billion-zillion of them – man-made-up and real and realistically breathing heavily, heavenly, inside of her livid mind / interesting i-n-d-e-e-d
And that lack of eroticism never truly bothered her being
A buff, a girl with a million-and-one hidden tricks seething mutely within

 – the nitty-gritty good-gossip (girl) who adored good sports – all of this open to glaringly unjustly suggestion /

A muscled arm, disarms the motor-mouthed man / looks too old, hardly ever
Vivacious, if we will let it
Be – a Spielberg film (seethes) disorderly at being (bodacious at being) up-inside of her plain mundane brain if anything else but for that and this hopscotched thing – placed maladjusted upon constant f-i-r-e, mundane at being simply scintillating
These are the militating, limitating days per the actors interspersed, -sparsed thoughts
Barry Lyndon takes a flustering cigarette and sits desirably opposite, opposed to her
And he gently, rigorously, darn right downright plain mundane incredulously touches its over-elongated surface
Thirsty and difficult, he appears to be obsessive at being rip-torn aside beautifully, astutely, dutifully meticulous – observing a thing of true sizeable beauty
Hidden in her lesser evils – twisting and lock-horned within abrupt vessels for continual portrayal, which bleed at the righteous rim
She smiles and smirks because We, She, They, He – Everybody – imply implies to admit that they knew it from the singular beginning …
These flustered, slow-reaching rigorous frustrations have been. giggling at her inner-insides.
1723 again. when she lost her sensuous soul, she died by the lie of the lustrous land. and in a far-fetched glass-grown field with a hazardous horse at her vilified side.
Seems he made the final inevitably invisible killing. of She. Curbed curiosity is real at realising the release.
Manipulate it as you might like to realign your (mis-)adventurous mind to do … and shrink. to think about all of it, p-l-e-a-s-e
An applied inner-discipline, if you will. let it stretch itself to the very detrimental ending … of the beginning again.
Even if enthusiastically perceived by Dalton Trumbo and all in one keen, keen-eyed blow of his whetted whistle
Perceived to mean everything and anything so long as making singular sense to
Only himself, reading til it breaks the splash n dash of that agonising line which never really did deserve to be wholly, imploringly ignored
That paradoxical outcome at hand – thematically obvious only ever two centuries too late … as fate would fail at having itself breathe easily
‘Unemployment Peaks’ / ‘The Hand-Trap From Hell’ / ‘Let The Line Run Out ‘Til It Feels Real’

A long walk in the wooden region of her tethered being, her face falls away and in against the scream of her palm – she’s been bed-ridden aside otherworldly reclusive

Only her own seething portraiture, wishes that she could be
Promiscuous again

Spell it out, please, for me and for him

Disarmingly real and composed little creatures

I float eerily above one soul, naked and mysteriously alone, over-elongated at being too young, undeterred and vehemently

The trees can stretch and pain and finally feel – their very own surgically enhanced portraiture

One by one becomes utterly accustomed to this experimental, chopping-board sensation – savant-garde, perhaps, a lapse in concentrated concentration

Someone gently whispered and told them all that this would be terrifically important to me

While we sit restlessly right down up on and welcome ourselves into ‘the writers block library’, attempting again and again – as best as we shan’t – to evoke our screaming, scramming, screening emotion – true of every major artist, we simply live in a town called, unspeakably, Unemployment Peaks

A dip and a push and a far-reaching sway of our fluttering oars midst an ocean of inner peace twisted within
This translucent and magnificently translated pain

And the rain at nighttime holds us tighter together than ten-thousand lightning bolts ever will

Is this really the hand-trap from hell … let the line run out til it feels recklessly real

‘The Darren Aronofsky Experience’
At being
At bothering
Her senses
Her soul
Anne knows best
Doesn’t she?
Shit sure of her self
Her reckless restraint at being ra
Random and re
Some people
Something special about this
The family
Sees a signpost
A significant way f-r-e-e
It relishes
Reads at the
These pe
Persnickety people – twist
Twisting it all round
Never a one to hurt someone
Somebody Street – at channeling
Changing beliefs
Freedom from constraint
Constant concern
He’s a didactic
This is Darren Aronofsky and this is the nightmare logic