The exponential masterpiece which cries in the face of plagiarised forgiveness, and the apostrophe bends and breathes… by the brazen-ended brim of its exorbitant bleed

Wanderings punctuated by chance encounters, chances encountered… far as chanced encounters of the charming man with rag ‘n’ boned existences for New-Age, globetrotting feet

Probably went way back beyond where he really should have taken himself with this thing, stretching the difference between marvellous and magnificent…

Visibly wherein, the delicately pressed brain-pickings make less than less kinds of heavenly sense but for themselves

Breaking collectively away from the bridged ridges of her early-a.m. olive branches

With the eager bounce midst the dishevelled twist of a brand new manoeuvring RobinRedBreast, he keeps a whole ‘who-knew’ slew of petrified drinks for his favourite best-friends

The barenaked vehemence of the snide-eyed burial-site

Which stands abruptly filled with the jaded superlatives of many a dead and buried, mouthwateringly malnourished Saint aside sacrilege Sinner…

Which wrap their black arms, white cream-clotted tips of their Pegasus legs

Right the way round-about the colossal neck

Of his favourite-best nemesis’s again

And followed oh so shyly by

A slyly insinuated, succulent wink atop a lady’s Menthol cigarette – when some kind of mysteriously windswept, deliriously impregnated merit wrestles and prances incandescently for itself

Carries with it the stoop, the bow-legged loop of an aged old crop-picker aside the famous face of a curious little Canadian boy suddenly put upon courageous fire

Only ever metaphorical in meaning he’ll have you know it

Sturdier than that ScorchingHotSun which sits set upon flawless fire, stands startled and as lucidly suggestive as a JadedHotRock put upon playful distraction again – and her AngularApostrophe holds no true gaining but for UtterApprehension

Indeed, when he fails at failing to fail at forlornly witnessing

And seeing

It any other such SecondaryWay

Tertiary, perhaps – this and that, the rat/tat/TAP… and the erstwhile kiss of the tortured, Guinness-blessed typewriter feels

Peripherally speaking.. TwoDots stricken and dispatched till lit like a pair of adjoining Cara matches

At the inner reaches of the creative in-between

As supposed to three substandard, misread, InvisiblyLividPieces

Soon as the SupernaturalStars realign and ConsiderToDissolveAtResolving all of our natural habitat…

Where can he get a CurdledCaffeine, she has to blink it and think to specifically ask for herself, as though t’were simply a sensuous secondary stroll all over yesterday’s pedestrianised place-mat again, triangularly speaking only ever of course

Right at the CornerstoneCafe, dearest dutiful lady – wherein all of the ghosts of OldPlagiarisedPoets go to bombastically return and breathe breathlessly…

Yet, again, sacrilege and secondary – some will push, forge, and abruptly lie

Vividly, nonchalantly nearby

The falsified sides of their nakedly oppressive selves and SoliloquySay that it needs to be MentallyMagnificent at that – a multi-malfunctioning, wilder-beast extension of his own multi-ambidextrous soul

And he will proceed at bringing TransContinentalMisery into full-blown WidescreenAnomaly, and all of this markedly laid down by, via, vis-a-vis, the bleeding twist of the escapist wrist

Still, leaving his undiluted mark upon the CradledSurface of the black and white canvas of her FerociouslyMisplacedFace / Yes, the iridescent taste is undeniably two-fold, many a manic and memorable hold over these reminiscing memories of HolocaustNurses and SexuallySufficient maids, maybe?

Stage nervous yet, still, screaming, scheming, serving, sitting upright and sprightly

To take notable notice of herself

While, all awhile, these FallingWingedAngels create silly little ChildlikeMastercasts for their decidedly manicured selves…

Beating against the granular grain and he soldiers on (in) regardless of this thing called ‘The Death of a Suitable Ladies-Man’

Easing her each and every single next worry away

With each and every single next bristle ‘n’ breeze

Of the tremendously implemented borrower’s breath

Which lies destructively unencumbered between

The bridged ridge of two opposing, whistling, picket-white teeth

RomanticallyPullingAtTheOtherCursedPerson just gently enough to get to call herself a ModernDayMiracle, yet fair foolish enough to get to call herself a juvenile, rude-faced delinquent of many a mind unmade up

Needs to know it, though.. but is she really his RunawayMasterpiece?

Peripherally speaking, only ever to be SilentlyTreasured of course

Sharing her BathWater with the ChosenPoets of Yesteryear…

And she then decides that he TouchedtheGlimmeringSurface all along, allowing herself to InevitablyTaste all of his old ForeclosingSources

Dripping within sizeable bouts of gold-arisen ink and TheProminentCurse of a MillionBetterWordsmiths sincerely begins at being put upon juvenile fire, while, all awhile, chaining the dismembered link back to a bountiful belonging…

Cagin’ ‘n’ ragin’ for her own SUBSTANDARD words to finally, RIGHTEOUSLY, RIGHTFULLY wrap-right-round-about THE PERIPHERAL VISION OF A MILLION DEAD PEOPLE

Unlucky, for some may say, shadows of the overhead metal-faced lightly lit aircraft but still shrill and forever readily prepared

To meet them all behind the walls of their gambit minds – never minded TooMuch, did we though?

The paternoster droppings atop ten-thousand bomb-shelters cuddled into non-sequential oblivion







They go… tussling ‘n’ bustling with the Neanderthal overgrowth and, still, heavily, headily, intent upon debutante destruction, the unequivocal Tuck-On-In midst thankless delirium

Whenever one side wins, the other loses a million dozen oil-soaked surfaces of its scintillating skin

Marginally ambivalent about her very own QuotientBrilliance, shaping herself as though nothing other than a MinorMouthpiece swimming miserly within water fallen below zero degrees of freeze-frame ineptitude

Above all else, placed insufficiently amongst/against too many BootleggingPeople all together to ever get to mathematically count themselves in outright

When the Devil of Don DeLillo lies at the base of the dastard-handed emergence of detrimental detail…

Only for Waltzing Matilda’s eager-faced insignificance to distantly surround the pulsating, brigadier creep of the begotten underground

To steal their corporal imprisonment away – these burning timber – timbre – sun-stricken violins and all of these sinful, olive-branched, better-left-utterly-alone people

Left to silently screaming, scheming, sitting, serving only ever themselves…

SelfishlySpeaking rather- seems it isn’t easy for these petrified people to be phenomenal, yet monstrously, easily, these petrified people will ForeverAttemptToBe…

Above average and below truthfully beautiful – a weather-forecast of unabashed sorts and they really ought to wipe their crystal clear tears away from their pretty little puzzle-pixelated faces

With nothin’ else put upon his tied ‘n’ tested tongue but for he had to fool-ya, didn’t he, though? – Yet, is she really about to beneficially become the unofficial international anthem for many more tongue-sworn people OutThere

About to unofficially kneel and prey and come before her, when their much maligned air-time begins to amount to EverythingSoVerySentimental?

This hypersensitivity is real…

Probably went way back beyond where he really should have taken himself with this thing

Stretching – stressing – the difference between marvellous and magnificent…

Visibly wherein, the delicately pressed brain-pickings make less than less kinds of heavenly sense but for themselves

Expressively, impressively speaking – together they are begging to become…

A sworn-in, class-A masterpiece of unaccountably original sorts

With everything put back upon the reality of her piercing black beauty, she leans (on) in and touches the tip of her Medusa-Like tongue

To whisper it so exceptional and sweetly: “With satisfying silence, pl-ease…”

*Soon as the shape of her soothing soul mattered more than the most – a toast to the lonely ones

With mixed-up minds which can never fully decipher and decide – Between what might be a magnificent MetaphorInWaiting and what is plain outright matter of fact LivingSeethingActuality

Crazily alphanumeric shades of shit to the gentile winds, and she begins at feeling all kinds of

Exponentially mixed-up yet A-gain

She’s about to explore the 4th floor, metaphysically speaking only ever of course

*Within the warmth and the heat of their heavily put upon snow-bashed cigarettes, these penniless people will forever proceed and pander further on in, soul-searching and seeking unspeakable forgiveness, midst the blizzardous twist of her sweet, scathing, encyclopedic-ally enhanced coffee shop kisses