The thump of the far-reaching undergrowth, and an unnatural degree of chaotic chaos precedes the overbearing nature of the grave-digger’s fall

Here is an unmatched girl with her whole wide-eyed world about to implode back to fuksake reality again – welcome to this never-ending agony toppled and turned topsy-turvy toward utter dilapidation

Caught constantly napping with her manicured hand embedded marvellously inside the cookie-jar of inescapable dreams – the scream, the bare-essential scram – scamming – to make sense of itself

She appears to have been an undeniable sellout, seeking what is rip-torn and rather recklessly inebriating

When he took her contagious arm and carried it back to a place of fond fickle memory, wherein that’ll do fine, thank you for now and never again, please…

Feasts her lying eyes upon the prize of an angry lifetime, and it all starts to feel a little nervously, unnervingly real… girl, world, waiting with a violent violin at hand

When the truth will inevitably, invitingly, compellingly play itself out one gargantuan tune per rapturous time – and she finally starts at incredulously amounting to the greatest liar known by anyone …

And, yet, here he still stands, willing to place his ramified diction right between the teeth and interlocking honey-kissed lips of her sweet, sweet underrating fictional tale of a rat-race on multi-syllabic wheels midst comfortable chaos

Misplaced, decidedly, yet riotously necessary given over to the times they are a-crying out for change … of any kind, please

Soon as his hand moves,
the room improves,
its dilapidated reappearances.
Welcomes itself back into the ink-spill,
which will forever tell,
its own tremendous tale.
Of angst, agony and dishevelling degradation. No less honey-kissed and bliss-filled. With these metaphorical bullets which his throat chokes upon time again til unpardonably penetrating,
The lesser of two twin evils. All of it gilded in gold and kissed til gently delivered from the breath of a telling whisper hidden unforgettably within.
All of him,
All of every next piece of him…
Even if he is running out of mere miracles.
And back to the begging beginning again, wherein he will forever get to dance
Within the Sad, Sad sunrise of his Sad, Sad Captains – the architect to his early-a.m. infamy …