He’s watched my manic mind destroy his eyes, these sweet streets of matrimony simply stink … ten back alleyways way too many.
Barcelona in his brain only we’re drinking right back here at home again – only nowhere to be seen.
Been equally misbehaving, the pair of us – just look at us now, sugar-coated gluttons for contained, tainted, internationally restricted punishment
Meant to mean
Something so very alarmingly sweet… just that they don’t seem to agree with me, let alone believe in me anymore.
Is this really well and truly my bipolar empire, or am I mad-capped at failing to realise my burgeoning reality!?
Paraphrased, adolescent pressed, hobnailed feet – and my memory of my Mama’s been caught kissing Santa again, namely these noisily nasty neighbours
Impaling themselves solemnly, soullessly beneath Christ’s backward standing bicycle, namely mine …
Retreat, retreat, quick man-led cheating husband feet – the crucifix cross of white lies, and I am undeniably cross.
Drinking sweet suburban Mary-Delilah cocktail-shakers on her own two lonesome feet for her Christ-mass dinner-time // every time from Tuesday through abuse day, yet again.
Mind. Bothered by time.
From rushed delinquency breathes a brand new brush with balanced brilliance.
Seems to be, though, that the peak is hazardously unspeakable.