The stream of Mexican sub-conscience is rather relentless as it were – restless at being
Perfectly well-stressed

Let’s get ready to get lost in a world full of San Franciscan sophistication why don’t we…

An enchanting idlewild walk beneath the feet of the tethered region invites itself in

Sacrosanct and desirably shallow, these alabaster circular nutshells cast no real shadow but for uttermost perpetration

The posthumous preparation which shall cause ungodly penetration only if we sit and let it twist its sullenly suggestive self inner-within our misshapen and desirably bleeding insides

Wound-up and it feels very nearly right this time, don’tcha simply think it?
Til breeching the quandaries of the quantum-physics divide

All of this until she sufficiently sends herself right back down upon heavenly grounds again

On hellbent earth as it were…

Sinking, whilst he manages to somehow agonisingly gild and glide and sycamore swim all by himself

Two dishevelled people who appear to own this whole wide truculent and juxtaposed soul, which has undeniably altered itself to endlessly adhere to the peer-pressure of an age-old century

To be seen to stress itself formidably back together again, filled to the bubbling-hot bolster of the nocturnally prearranged brim with gym-class heroes / these universally estranged upper-class heroines

She sits a sanctimonious person with guided, guised time pressed matrimonially by her mysteriously fallen yet seriously whip-smart sides – ship-shape and ultimately improper and about to set herself up to break that re-punishable glass-ceiling

Sink or swim to the purposefully poised surface again, why won’t you just reach out your manicured hand to meet me at the miserly middle, pretty little lady?

And she’s been comfortably wrestling amidst these ethereal feelings of decidedly deathly, distantly dishevelled his

Until it makes some kind of non-sense again – pen, sinking utensil… And

To the miraculous surface again