And the room assumes an upright and staunchly standing positioning, slays it as it allays itself – rather perfect at being decidedly imperfect by chosen portraiture

The female naked artist stands all of her comfortable own and at play-, prey-pretend, for the male version of she is fair brilliant at lending a daftly, deftly enticed hand toward utter chaos – a touched softness of the bristled brush against the seething yet seriously settled canvas

A pro marches on no matter what beguiles him … technically he plays for pay but, all in all, they play for the love of this insanely suggestive gain, g-a-m-e
Been chosen and no other way, and there never appeared to actually be …

Six feet tall and entirely oblong all of its own – the sudden, sullen juxtaposition appears alarming at being reckless at being resolute and real

C-r-u-c-i-a-l
A thin layer of painted protrusion and we get to inevitably witness something white and alive as marble again, a tickled-pink moment persuaded with screaming time

So her skin is alive …

Vilified by life, curved curvature of his sanguine eye – an epic thrill, a constant tap-tap swill and the creative distillation can take us to someplace else
Somewhere specific at being glaringly delirious …

Proceeding at letting themselves be alarmingly brilliant yet again – comfort in ramified numbers and twice as sightly
And the break-of-the-brush begins

At inviting all of us in – constant gratification to the pause-for-thought, -taut, cause of a strife-time, decidedly over-elongated at being mysteriously stolen away … by the break of the artists’ reconfigured line

Their eyes are crying … and it finally begins to make sinful sense of itself / going selfishly against the entirety of their brain’s handheld grain

The failure is fucking all kinds of unkindly at being seriously fanatical, fantastically enlarged – a windfall and graciously grateful good-luck just will not fool him

Doing. It. For. The Fucking. Love. And Nothing. Else. Matters. The. Most.