In it, like only she can ever let herself be, in a limboland which has all of it been a-calling
Like lock, clock and stock
Like tastefully substandard aside implanted c-r-a-z-y.
Crazy bed-arisen creatures lie at the heart of the ghost of yesteryear’s past forgiveness which cautionary proceeds to take dutiful stock and by the turn of the wound up clock- a shock to the system and all of this upside down, topsy-swervy, paramilitary ineptitude is beginning to feel detri-mentally r-e-a-l, don’tcha think it, too?
 
All of these walking, talking, winding, masterfully meandering roads which she has been uttermost forced to unequivocally pedestrianise are pen-ultimately blinding.
 
By the posterior book-bind – and there absolutely appears to be… second to none other, a thundering, heated hot Sun with tear-drops sprinkled, nestled fantastically til altogether cleanly near…
Its weathered eyesight for post-nocturnal behaviour.
Caught beneath the landslide and far, far too many ways in fact for us to see a manner in which that the bolster of the pink juvenile hip of a teenage delinquent can sway…
Whilst the twist of its upstairs lip reaches to kiss…
The farthermost reaches of that marvellously magnanimous early-morning sunlight – and her writer’s sleight-of-hand is undeniably happy again.
Pushed poised settler’s spilling Pen = zen.
Come back to life, oh please tease it on through bowling-bowl-alley to the other side.
 
Mild, calm and contagiously collected, she is a seriously soothing aphrodisiac sweetheart stacked gloriously atop her secular being And it has all of it been Recklessly Realistic.
 
She is on a most comfortably unparalleled unwinding and it wishes to finally, rather quite invitingly unravel and travail until all of us get to hold our manicured hands and travel
With her in kind, kind, kind til the end of a down-upon-her-knees existence – begging us, please…this might just be where the nerve-endings borrow and bleed, satisfactorily breathe. Upright and staunch at being v-i-l-i-f-i-e-d.
 
Because baby… oooooooooooo, if heaven calls my name I am giving you the blame..
A dishevelled, dilapidated and decidedly nap-worthy place wherein everything and whenever she may get to let herself be shall inevitably make ends meet.
 
And all awhile the sincerest smile in the whole of our child-like world is intertwined and she means to mean anything special hidden Deeper inside.
 
She is a cat in a bag dropped within a river of nine lives
 
And she still s-i-n-k-s to s-w-i-m
 
Back to the other side. Just a little pin-prick to the mind midst momentary paralysis.
 
Soon as the touch of the sophomore Sun leans itself subtly against her beating body and all courtesy of this delicately delicious and undoubtedly wondrous detail midst the scream of the D-e-v-i-l-s reeling.
 
Her’s will have to be – That Champagne Supernova sparked on f-i-r-e near the kiss of the eye of the sky.
 
The storm is a-coming baby
Falsely forming from the inside-out of your deathly enthused derelict fiction. This will have to be – the Thinker’s overthought, inescapable as it is and we really ought to walk on through it til prioritised by a gilded life.
 
Strife – GO FUCK YOURSELF WITH A GOLDEN-GOOSED GUN,
Please… with ease.
 
Really,
it is as simple as the features of a black and white piano pushed graciously back into imperfect place again. Faceless and it tastes fucking otherworldly for all to see.
 
B-i-g. Deal.