Of his
Hidden and real, reckless wound-about words for black and white-fingered weaponry.
Let. It. Be – the key to his best kept secrets in time
Wrapped around his favourite wailing heart-strings
Somewhat seethes.
Settled aside sacrilege, stanched and heavenly, heavily bandaged plagiariser
Of forever repetitiously misplaced ours.
We really ought to start to sit and to sinfully, sing-fully begin to finally, invitingly, inevitably anoint him
Tongue-tied albeit ceaselessly making secondary sense of itself, p-l-e-a-s-e.
This living breathing finger-lapping, -licking, orchestra-tore it all back together again.
Invisibly viable pen inside of his malnourished go sit with a watchman brain
When constant creation breaks the alarming divide with-in malfunctioning industry.
21st-century egotistic imbeciles just must crack the alignment of a camel’s corrosive back and take themselves forever away from the sworn-off umbilical cord.
This sanctimonious drivel midst meaningfully re-, prearranged satisfaction – actual
Piano-handed people with persnickety, snake-like dream-weaves to thieve it all away.
Just. Cannot. Know. Why. He. Feels. Ten-Foot. Tall. Anymore.
When he’s about as small as these far lesser people who will whisper forever inside of his favourite nightmare and beg for it to be real
