The turnabout poem – this utterly nestled, twisted, bleeding mess of a woman with a famed frame to match her acclaimed face

Touches the two-tonne taste = the wanton weight of her favourite best glass of damndastardly anticipation

Relinquish these far-pressed feelings, oh, please. Spill and instrumentally release your accordion-covered fingernails, finally fair invitingly atop of another man’s shallow asphyxiation

Only then and now shall that cigarette smoke with its wisps of ultimate warlord replication feel as though heavenly both hellish and borne out from under-beneath the crisply cut surface of
Another wielded, febrile, fertile working world

Not one word though, but for the width of his favourite best brain when pressed gently against
Her story-boarded chest – tattoo-emblazoned and fashioned-from-derelict-fiction, baby!

Here we go again

With our wild encyclopaedias rested astride

Our mild realities