Manhattan on upside-down waywardly precarious acidic re-awareness. If we can call the other thirsty person from deep within First Avenue and deep beneath Lenox Hill, from deeper, deeper, deeper within the Mt. Vernon Hotel, then we can breathe to think truly again. The only motherf*cker in this dilapidated city that can attempt to stare and stand me… Have I really been sitting in this ashtray with terrible distaste aside poisonous promiscuity for my new favourite best-friend!? Lose me to find thee, fine by me.

Where ever is her window to the soul, though!?

He should never have misinterpreted the power of her perfectly plagiarised dance-stance… Running away from all of the men to find herself again, or rather running away from herself to find all of the mean men who taste her deepest sins for their early-morning breakfast-time am. – midst this unspeakable shine in her crucifying eyes.

Soon as so much as Twenty-Four Sycamore Park gets to paralysing them again. Kindly this time
Twenty-first century penitentiary. Wherein these First World ‘War’ problems of theirs begin at making deliciously gracious, mistake-felled sense… a place wherein their imagined worries take magnificent shape, make magnificent meaning again
It’s all just teenage talk, baby. She is the butterfly upon his floating shoulders either way they see fit. See it, please… he is on the edge of a falsified heart-attack about to spit fire and start somewhere seriously mysterious from here on in electrified by knife. Either way gilded and guided by Holocaust eyes
Slight to the touch and he hurts her so much… only she is crying this time, yet she is trying for the rhyme
For there is softly playing this Holocaust pen, against the sides of their branched to reach brains – emblematic again

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