An illness of the mind with damaged colours inside Gender-specific never mattered, not really, not one silly little-perplexed bit The colour of the scope will amount though, and to something serious, something promisingly has arisen And secretive silence guides it to another such realm of chosen uncertainty Again Pear-shaped politicians and riotous mouthpieces who wish to Christ she wasn’t so very bedridden at this thing called an upside-down life of the black panther put upon the burning embers of the courteously misplaced fireplace Because to suddenly witness her proclamation of a bruised and battered procession march is to feel everything handled simultaneously within Thanklessly, until… an avid creature of creative habitat gets to counting itself irrepressibly back in With the brain of an eagle’s favourite eye-sore only still carries with it the ten-tonne body of a sloth put to the sword Wherein the weary bouts of divisive mannerism go to restrictively, constructively, controversially bleed sweet delirium… By the earnest wink of the tapered red ribbon It holds its hand out, and she is racing, only did it really have to be so very undeniably embarrassingly romantic by the ending to outshine all other nerve-endings? Yes, she creates with her pain – the only way back in and it worries her to think it Paralyses herself to feel it, and yet… this is an image of an imagining of an imagination that saves itself for the edges. While the insides are, plain speaking, set to remain resolutely insane No off-button for that, my dearest sweetheart, your complicity complicated Delilah

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