And the die has been cast. A pretty process and back past the point of no return.
All of it earned. That sip of sweet sacrilege white wine from a sacrificial bottle which nervously bounces. In between clattering jittered teeth. An undeniable affinity with these mightily mixed up emotions of his.
That terrifically estranged taste. For he hasn’t touched a dwindling drop in damn near twenty.
The jovial delinquent, the unofficial sneaking vandal – and all of the sneering people on the crowded streets way below who swear at the mere meagre scope of his malnourished mind.
Its complete able affable ability to adhere to something like a substitute for a better life.
Creating. Figuratively gathers from all sorts of substantially desirable nothing. Suitably
standing, sitting, dutifully noting, rotating axis of a trembling juvenile and youthful French frame.
Midst a shy and an unnaturally invisible mixture – hanging-glass suggestive portraitures – of nothing aside plain supreme heavenly scriptures.
His own electric sky if you might like to satisfy yourself so beneficially well in this wound-up world of ours. The merriment days seem to have been veering themselves latently toward impatiently waiting, and the chartered call of the visionary canvas still jerks and speaks in whipsmart tongues all of its lonely own again, whilst that arched back architectural criminal steps fondly alongside his favourite best chosen imaginative nemesis.
Falling deeper, deeper, serendipitously inside, further, farther, ferociously within….
And all awhile… carries a serene and strikingly masterly Van Gogh-like smile. Darkly lit scriptures, please, and set softly-swiftly as a breeze between the face of two twin peaks which will speak in typewriter portrayal far back home to where the plan was considered and deliriously hatched.
All of it scintillatingly refurbished to fruitfully boot and with Wordsworth’s rambunctious lines of sentenced words swimming violently.
And heavily pleading to rack themselves up by one if none of the other colours do reach the bridge of the screaming surface.
What can solvently manage to break the kaleidoscipically inescapable divide does tend superstitiously toward sleeping awfully well per highlighted night.
The genius’s stolen requiem and
That’ll have to have been the driving, diving supernatural narrative force of the robotic butterfly which flies in the adverse face and at the ferocious forefront of her beautifully bruised and bettered muse mind.
Technical technique if we might like to satisfy our fledgling hiccups aside miserly misconstrued lives. And sing it so swiftly-softly from a million deducing rooftops. Which choose – the Hopscotch life above all else.