She takes her seat to presume the upright position – discretion on this wilder than flower-haired Lady’s part a none too learned thing of interrupting hers
“Sooo… What is it which makes your writing grow, I might ask?”
– High, heightened Art actually… I guess, in fact
Huh!?
Fucksake, she’s got track-marks aligning her tattoo-encrusted everything
A shallow arm, how… disarming?
“Just I’ve been reading, do you know, and, yes indeed, I’m all in.”
Suffer for your sins, wordsmith extraordinaire of forever ours
Turn the other cheek to speak to another relatively so reprobate with grandiose opinions swarmed right by
To fail to warm any such high-octaned event of lacklustre theirs
Sketched upon the fixture-list rather necessary, back home where storied poems float no less supreme
Literary, of course
Floored by humour and rhyme ferociously, fair frustratingly gone awry – they do seem to adore said rhyme nonetheless, yet trap to perish themselves inside of the real Brian
Eggshells that fell a little short of his feet

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