Leave your altered egos at the door, please
Her stolen soul belongs to Satan

Sod it – sod it all, this nervously dishevelled permittence of hers and we crack our backs try as we might to make non-sense of it all for one last time, wildfire eyes, too cutthroat to (ever) crucify – she’s been living within all of these nineteenth-century lies

Yet, try as he might not to turn her eyes inner towards something mild-mannered at being undeniably awe-inspiring – the artist and muse who refuses to be the (eagerly inept) go-between
Dreaming of their juvenile delinquencies together again …

The tumult torso
They’ve been mysteriously, deliriously real and it feels somewhat sugar-coated … at being remote controlled

If they could in fact live by the bargaining nature of their paraplegic pen, then it would in fact turn out to be
Simply beautiful – a bleeding ear-full at being
Simply suicidal – seems some people were born to make cathartic molehills into glorious mountain-hills
And the furthermore they do tend to stepping away from themselves the better it does get at upsetting itself again
Like an accordion of ill-prepared thoughts …
The stretch and the squeeze, forever ill-at-ease