The theatre of mind – I don’t mind so much anymore.

Tipped to touch, each piece the next piece of imperfectly permitted Ours.

All-encapsulating pulsation, and We pick up our sticks, bristle brushes rather.

Took this thing from Her forefathers – all juvenile eyes riotously arisen to righteously arrive – arise now, please, tease the life right back on through We.

By the break of the bolstered line, wine ‘n’ dine midst promiscuous proposition …. positions herself just so slightly to my left hand side.

A naked, manic-stricken, precision-led, finger-fed masterpiece in-waiting.

Sedate me, please … whilst we go lightly into the night. Whispering at ourselves oh so slightly til finally standing red-ribboned at being … ridiculously Real.

Heard it all before. Beneficial as the day we were born to be … unsightly aside twisted and deranged individuals bringing with Us decisions and decidedly preordained to sit by this microphone and roar sweet, sweet nothing’s near …
 
Their forever dishevelled ear-piece – and the world has been listening, listlessly. Sitting themselves comfortably down inside of the disabled car-park near the basement of my screaming brain.
We will sit softly back into the passenger seat side and watch it rain –
Counting our futures on twenty intertwined juvenile fingers. That’ll be Our forefathers final touch set-to-soar.
Resolutely resolving and restoring the improbably magnificent, She says.
And back to bed, where the both of Us belong to the other intrepidly interspersed person again. Mission pending.
Holy Zen.