Her legs were these heavenly perceived afterthoughts
Wherein sprinting dreams went to live and die right by the ladder of inescapable thirst
A black mesh hem pencil-skirt and her looking-glass spectacles appeared to be rather eager too
To converse and snidely collude… to miraculously collide
A telescopic vision of panoramic portrayal and all of this in the sordidly set twist of a blessed pressed microphone
She keeps a smiling face near the steer of her ears so that nobody knows that she is crazy
A bejewelled master-puppeteer, my misleading mistress of lock-jawed whispers rather
To wage a most kaleidoscopic war with tutelage words
This misbehaving audience has been impatiently waiting
Having paid their top dollar for lyrical design
A colloquial thing of mouth-watering and seriously piquant understanding is she
Every which way they walk and talk
More and more of the very same male people cannot but attempt to manage to contend with and handle her realm of raptorial righteousness
Cannot but indulge their libido-arisen senses
Fret not, for this girl’s musical tongue, whip-smart and incredibly real, shall set sail a thousand land-escaped ships again
Thawed to within an envious albeit comparatively inviting inch of perfectly juxtaposed portraiture, painting an ethereal picture of hope on a rope – have to ask you though, just how long can the two endings of a string really be?
She stands to hand and feels the searing heat of the restless and never-ending evening
As we get to witness and watch her suddenly become
someone so very special and significantly comfortable – a silent masterstroke carries with it these marvellously make-shifted meanderings of in-between meaning
She’s funky for fucksake
Accommodating all of us and all of the time
All of us and all at once
Utterly accustomed to whichever lyrical shape and form she shall take for herself next – colourful expression means everything whenever the girl has turned herself agreeably invisible
She’s been cheating with reckless and inattentive time by way of creative attention to detail aside unbridled choreography, picking it up by its pieces and hanging it at the farthest reaches of the pulsating sky
It is four o’ clock in the morning again and that is where we get to meeting right at the farthest reaches of our nocturnal dreams
And, so suddenly soon, she turns herself over in her fallen sleep
Informs me that I am the crazy one
I call myself Patrick and I call her Joy
She’s passionate from miles away, passionate with the things she says… and with a brain the size of the whole wide world she means no harm really
It is aware of her existence and in a way that it usually isn’t
Or is she in fact a two dollar brain with fifty dollar words? Again, we have to ask her this one last thing before we bask in her scream of shrieking beauty
Whether we find ourselves fighting or having sex or both, we are in this thing one hundred percent and all of the time and looking to do a hundred more things to do with our eyes