“Shall We Leave The Stage Left Of Centre?”

Twelve seats. One adorning seat for each – Of our sacrificially interstellar, high-flying imaginations. Of many, perhaps? At the table of hierarchical theatricality and utmost mental dexterity. Pressed and dressed accordingly, cordially dripping with ineptitude and disdain. When two unsuitable individuals become one and we shoot at a half-dozen of the other mixed-up people. The utter nonsensical noise of nothing matters so much anymore but for almost completely everything, really. And the undeniable boredom attempts to wash them right the way out of mind, out of sightly. Closing them tightly, chasing them lightly – one then another, left then rightly. He saw more than most people and, more oft than not, they should have had more of a meandering heart. And started at seeing more of him, too. The clean smell of our lived-in, sweat-arisen, New Orleans’ bed-sheets with literary imprisonment sketched ‘n’ etched radiantly upon – We are the bedrock of society, these pulsating have-a-heart characters: The co-author’s supernatural habitat with home-strewn barbiturates plied happily atop of inescapable persuasion. We were in a league of our own only carrying with it no real name. Nothing aside really everything mattered now and it didn’t feel right or all that wrong either… Surprise my eyes, please!! He cared about not at all caring anymore, becoming a recommended outsider in our own wide worlds. Those were the giving moments, when fenced words fell at fierce speed, and nothing much else but for right here in front of his picket-white eyes matters the most. To somewhere unknowing, someplace completely indecisive and sweetly. When they mattered at making hateful great again. He took the insides of my mind and travelled with it till the nerve-endings… Paragraphed my truths, paralysed my lies. Our moralities mattered the most when we needed the tussle ‘n’ breeze of feast the least. And vice-versa curse our thirsty souls – Sold ourselves to a date with the devil with a pretty penny. Turned to one side, a glimmer at both the bad sides that we had. A parcel wrap only minus the sight of a sprightly red ribbon; have to ask, but wherever were our punch-drunk apostrophes since the beginning? And the napping cigarette asks after the halo of his hand… About to blow smoke up all of their asses. Have to ask, but wherever and how the fuck on earth did the breakthrough just happen!? It just will… Cut and instil, he’s been dying with the encouragement again.