Kiss the corpse cry-hard die-hard fans-a magnificent-ally opportunistic man-made monster. Nocturnal by fixated nature, the failure for ‘stranger’ things to fail at happening any more than his last sad-eyed victim multiplied by t(w)o many women altogether. Mother an’ daughter, rhapsodic slaughter. And his grotesquely aware nonchalant demeanour invites itself in again. This twisted an’ vehemently inescapable thing which has been suitably, sizeably, poised to wonderfully usurp Us all ’til it starts at beginning to give bloodlessly radiant birth to oneself. He is all sorts of ugly and extraordinarily sin-filled, yet, still, still… still handsomely instilled with the fanatically multi-ambidextrous colours of the wraparound rainbow.
Searing hot heat plus darkening death by his secretively paced-placement-feet. Repeat, repeat…
Some mother’s fallen S(o)n for certain-a dead, slight movement of tip-tap-toe and they shall forever agonisingly fail to realise… His creeping, needing ability-when one illegitimate son cannot contend with being so very brilliantly distasteful aside utterly egotistically estranged, placing himself finally, disdainfully, opportunistically out of far-reaching, police siren range again.
And his rose-red shutters come down right the way round-about their dressed-pretty-in-pink bodacious little preordained, stained and tainted to the (b)rim bodies, ’til made up to be heavenly, heavily sedated. Then they will disappear from eagle-eyed sight a fair while…
Nothing but for dust an’ age-old forlorn an’ unspeakably real an’ reckless tumbleweed to feed these reminiscing vultures of a West Texan man’s unforgiving yesteryear

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