The lost and amiably found-out – these half-stressed, – stretched locomotively deranged creatures of sacrosanct habitat
Detrimentally hand-fed and craftily led invigoratingly toward the silly little shoestring creators who pertain to ceaselessly permit themselves – the inexpressive holdings of a rather explosive bristle-brush
 
Brought from the wrought-iron train-wreck of a hundred other fair level-headed, heeded degrees of daft entitlement which sleeps brightly right by their exponentially ramified sides
 
Soon as the size of the resurfacing paternoster soul matters the most – a seriously wraparound 1670s Zachoney toast for the in-congruent ones who really should have been all along exacting, extracting, their matter-of-fact-over-friction revenge till otherworldly instilling itself
 
Motherfucking spills to sin midst dripped drabbed drops of delirium
 
All of the developmental aids – dashings of abstract, distracting colourings and must… just… be caressed descriptively, deceptively amidst juvenile heart-, hard-strings which tenaciously sing it
 
From the chimney-swept rooftops that cannot stop, shan’t ever try and simply adhere to the fleeting, screaming, careening nature of their unpredictable commotions and serendipitously sweet connotations
 
What might lie at the base of any page or canvas tends at being chalk-and-cheese pleasing, depending on viciously asking to be placed upon circumstantial repeat
There is a singing favourite handled grenade in the skin of a wrinkling old footnote, as supposed, opposed to the skyward bound soundings of a faraway feeling – paints itself a sophomore scene, sits itself down to ask for complete concentration, accompaniment, midst dilapidated disenfranchise
 
And then the OCD comes and takes it all away – insurmountably mountainous and galloping with these molehills again
 
If only, if only, for the stripped young unsuitably sufficient poet could not-should not have to fail at tightening the circumference of their welterweight eyes and adhering to this invaluable thing called
 
A thickening sense of non-sequential visual only eerily minus the illustrator’s lack of invigorated precision – they do do this on poised purpose so we know it makes some sort of unholy sense – if only they were able to manage to make silly little, over-entitled pieces of everyone else alter the significant shape of their very own nocturnal fight in the wine-tiled, -tilted extrapolation of the luminous a.m.
 
In other-handedly relighting, realigning, redesigning the other less talented person’s suffering work
 
All of this building itself into something… rather undeniably mispronounced aside a seriously succinct and stinging aside
 
And, if we ever were to ask them wherever it came from they will shut their tongues, take their tarnished, varnished minds to stroll someplace completely visionary…
And, sleep till it all starts again – always wishing, “I wish I had have written that thing!”
 
They did yet still motherfucking reaching, wrongly reacting – walking through the flames that pain themselves to misbehave