Carelessly creative again
F-u-c-k
To constantly coalesce and break rather broken-ended borders by, these pitch-fork New York/Manhattan skylight/sunshine divides – these blatantly shrinking, sinking bat-blurred eyelids of contagiously incorrect hers
Seem to know why

Exactly – stream of screened, screamed conscience
Shit, even Bukowski’s crack-whore weaponry words won’t gather to gain and stick by her flapping lid, same one that scares men into forced adultery sometimes

She is seething vitriol about to implode within oneself – a cup of flurried cream caffeine sits mysteriously weeping whilst it still panders alarmingly

The hidden perpetrator’s seemingly so insignificant reach aside righteously long-lost manhandle midst rambunctious pinch ‘n’ twist

Reality
Bean there, don’t be doing that again, please!!
Of the old-hat tubular pen which tends to fending for itself at face-value, cradled near and abruptly captured by this surprisingly unashamed pace

Only as hollow as her darting heart sometimes, it leaks when it speaks

That nasty, hasten might add, unspectacular at-large go-between
A thrill-seeker’s, lacking plot-speaker’s existentially distilling will

The colloquial spill, harnessed aside invisibly, invaluably harangued quite unnaturally by

This mistaken and perplexed procedure, sickeningly, more so

And, as ’twere, more oft than not the line-break fails to shrink at failing to let itself grow
Hemingway-sequinned tragedy bares unfruitful fruits to yo-yo and crack the theatre show in half
Unwise diced divides, the most deathly kind

By pointless drivel set to silken seed either way forth paralysed, feeds by the mouse-trapped imagination of inescapable realms

Chalk ‘n’ cheesed-off decisions begging to be met at their muddled middle meeting place

Of sentimental and sensationally instrumental dreams

And that same driven pen comes down right around, abound to thump her goosebumps til but shiversome
To the sounds…
Of nothing but ego

Raining red-ribboned release, say hello to the Lonesome Street parade, little singular lady

Shit, she’s a two… a manic three at least, out of ten thousand agonised and angular hands set to alcohol-felled seed

Fuck this, bleeding by the derogatory bleed rivers her all of the way anywhere but home
Meandering and scattered, she caresses the cradled and cracked mishap

And her breath catches itself again
Nothing but a bitten ‘n’ bitter thistle-thorn pen

A Belfast child and mild by many a recklessly real reckoning, only the bomb onslaught ought to know better sometimes – soon as the plot-twist traps and steals a piece of her real peace

Of plagiarised history set sail, and sometimes the sun pokes fun at her less than better behaviour

Interrogate the terrible