He plays the screaming trombone like a misshapen welterweight adolescent, meets with his people’s favourite dreams like the king to his misshapen queen – a pair of dastard-handed sonsabitches
Irreparable mismatches who shall forever get to carry constant chaos intermingled fair gloriously
Midst high-flying creation
A troubadour of his own imbalanced choosing, manipulated, bespoke and settled wholesomely, -heartedly, against her piano-slaying inadequacies, learns to leave it all at home and to thrive to survive whilst all of his better, lesser knowing friends make meticulously nauseating lives for themselves – awaiting the final drop of the metallic-faced penny as pretty as it may well get to let itself be
 And their uniquely fixated love is simply invisible and floating gregariously all around them all, just a helluva lot harder for them to simply see this time
Boogie woogie moon, all doom mixed within ingenious chasms of stereotypical gloom
She’s a San Franciscan girl by way of transatlantic divide and her
Words are her weapons
Much like violence, they sure as shit break the silence…
Yet, he comfortably listed her as his next-of-kin, the exact same one woman who will lean succinctly on in and begin to envelope and kiss his hidden meaning
His mysteriously mistaken sins, right by the bleeding insides
Undeniably parcel-trapped as opposed to comfortably  -wrapped and brings with him this forever twisted tunnel-vision
Of his
Specially, specifically, concocted aside intelligently contrived – til breaking the glass-ceiling to one man’s favourite
Just wishes to Crucified Christ that he hadn’t have been so very extraordinarily, unceremoniously, forced to walk with spiders
Inside of his cavalier mind
Underutilised and failing to eat at all of his cake by the singular and silly slow-mo enticement of a delightful slice at a time
Needs to know though, but who the fuck loaded the barrel of their beautiful gun and shot down Hallelujah!!?
He leans succinctly on in and whispers near her destitute ear and forever softly against her predisposed soul, but does she really know where all of the single white roses grow?
Under fifteen feet of pure white snow, he lifts his filthily filtered Galwegian glass nose
Has to fucking know, but “am I really the Wild Rover!?”
Seems ’tis always the very next question which gets to caress the living daylights from the unspeakable decipher be-tween
What is real and what is… unanimously w-i-l-d
Appears to be, seems to be, screams to me that (s)he is much more of a poet than a plagiarised person than anyone else can ever let themselves know
All about the unsuspected angle of the piercing comeback, right?
Spider-winged people in the morning time – where paralysing ideas make secondary sense of themselves yet again, waving from mysteriously within
Pretty as a picture, this agonised inner scripture set to soar/sore

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