High-rising, self-guiding, paralyzing apartment complexes – with fourteen other artists sitting at its soul for awareness.

Processing these eagle-eyed things, these hellbent, -sent, visions of only theirs.

Completely disenfranchised albeit specifically intent upon lending another part of themselves.

To a ransacked canvas, if only this paint will sit, stand, whichever way still – immediacy, a commonplace mess of make-believe people imperfectly poised to give outlandish birth to their minds of many an inept suggestion.

Just won’t collaborate, shan’t even ever attempt it.

Do they even realize the rolling hills which they have been creating for themselves!? Falling down a dime a bastard dozen, this unholy imprisonment. Landlocked which breaths through the next cracked glass of firing red wine, the next rendered inane pack of solo-smoked, match-stricken Marlboro cigarettes.

Threats – treats impending… burrowing a hole with so much fucking earth lying incredulously overhead that the irony is not lost on them any more than when…

They last attended, intended, to losing their screaming, scheming, scamming, scramming souls.

To the host of a promising ghost: “Proceed with caution, please.”

When all that they ever really wanted, wished for, was one great masterpiece poem to implement a necessity for the weakness of the rest… all of the fingers only no forgiveness

What even is this Thing with typewritten gusto plagiarised upon!!?
Atop, about to turn it all off soft to the tethered touch – a lust for moving on with another avenue of complete disenfranchise aside insurmountable discretion, handheld wisdom only minus the weapon

Go deeper still or cut that figurative noose, go sincerely back to a place wherein it inescapably tastes rather insufficiently real… still motherfucking reeling with levels of unspeakable vitriol at the foot of their bothering souls…
Explosive ghosts of fallen poets and playfully distinguished, romanticised over-embellishments

All of it still stings