Another girl, another sweet, sweet flurry of sweat-arisen sex, and suddenly she sees all of him (again)
Be it something of complete and hidden vitriol or something a little or a whole lot more… acceptable?
The deactivated painting has been waiting, screaming out his whispering name, even
As has she for him to become that lesser piece of problematic evil that will still need to breathe no less enthused
Refuses to go away, and by bodacious way of the artist’s cutthroat divide – still starry-eyed and strapped to a place of utter misadventure and marvellously misshapen mishap
She sits and sips from a disposable cardboard cup of its own decaffeinated creation, upright and mildly eager now and carries with her these lavishly strewn bells atop
Whilst the pink end of the protruding nipple proceeds to catching his corrupt eye for another kind of crazy creation altogether – he has been taken in and all of it deliriously aside decidedly, sizably insane for its whole wide earthly worth in the world out there
On out everywhere, even
He appears to be unbeknown to only ever himself, unprepared til about to be vivaciously pronounced by way of shrinking-violet sensation
And she suddenly upsets herself again and gets herself to thinking, but whenever will he get to meeting himself at the middle
A cherished and comforting realm wherein real people breathe easy
 When is enough enough? Never…
A case and flux of constant nature can create from dereliction and fiction whilst all along losing their very own homegrown nerves
 If he was a mathematician, they have to lean on in and to warily ask, but would he in fact turn out to be the sum of his own Evil
Number-crunching til left himself stammeringly insane
Waiting for the settling enveloping of their therapeutic bed-sheets again, wherein the whistle and whimper of the rambunctious rain feels no real pain but for the perfectly imperfect state and stare of promiscuous portrayal
Seems to be that she has bean waiting… endlessly, nervously, and all at once, the glutton for posthumous punishment indeed
Down upon her knees, blessedly pressed and about to portray her very own source of homegrown creation
A final way of sedating his sorry soul
Needs to know, but where ever has his redemption been
Her very last words to all of these sleeping people: “he happened to move in the most efficient manner that the whole of the human body can move,”
Under-beneath her whispering breath again, “in both his studio as well as utterly inside of our room.”
Seems to be that she was distant enough to know and that the black-eye might just have even been worth it