Gloriously bestowing and they can feel the might of a cutthroat knife, life out on rent again – penetrable whilst a penny will beg, steal n’ borrow for their customary troubles
Just this one time, please, really ought to let yourselves fail at interjecting
R-e-s-p-e-c-t the killer in me – his darting heart appears but so very ultimately empty – ladies & mental-men without a safety net to call their own anymore
What if we were to singularly ready ourselves and to flip-flop throughout the nocturnal nighttime? Happy at being incredulously f-r-e-a-k-y
And attempt as best we shan’t to d-a-n-c-e our troubles away – which way, though?
Brave, brave people and, then, we seem to untimely appear recklessly resolute at winding ourselves right the way up, fashionably candidly well captured and cheekily real
Where is our Grandfather’s clock though!!?
These shaky times of ours are fair deniably minding themselves and seriously topsy-turvy for their circular worth
When we see one such sickeningly suggestive way to finally
Breathe a final interjectory breath, insinuate to seriously envelope aside unforgettably replicate
All of our everlasting regrets
The deathly d-e-v-i-l swirling atop and inside of all of violently lacklustre We – preys upon our favourite Sunday morning d-r-e-a-m-s
Again and for one next subtly suggested time – about to borrow and caress ourselves til unwinding like clockwork tasty
There is a contagiously misplaced West Draconian milk stain sitting itself miserly, miserably within that half-naked glass midst a shamed portal to nowhere and we have been doing it by half-arsed chance til finding an inevitably estranged answer
To the D-e-v-i-l’s deal with his deathly self
Seems the more he tries the h-a-r-d-e-r we will fail at succeeding – caught in a wound-about whirlpool of reckless behaviour, we are all of us wrong at being decidedly strong and it feels specially right at being crucifying-ly red-ribboned in gilded g-o-l-d
The roundabout glory, a harrowing and scriptur-ing picture midst undeniable drivel
This monstrously enlarged throat-hold has us by the fuksake fist of its needy reckoning a-g-a-i-n
Motherfucking implemented while we cry our eyes and separate them from our nurturing minds – pimple-faced procedure they will pray and say it is so very sensuous at being
Goodnight everybody with nobody left, it has been a delight-filled, nut-shelled pleasure like something none other has ever seemingly perceived to feel the wind in the breeze of my bare-brazen face for yet another portal
No someplace specific and nowhere nice anymore
And now it is time for the ‘Fade Out’
Cauterised and caught by the might of her fledgling knife – never the less, she helps you tell a fine, fine, wine-concocted s-t-o-r-y-l-i-n-e of upsetting living
All. Of. It. Real.