He’s been caught talking to God again – silver-lining penitentiary
Drinking for his sins, watering down his near-misses whilst the other person does a dutiful disservice to their day
Malcontent, -nourished and barb-wired existences – when she leans and whispers against his lessening ear to finally suppose to propose a thing of utter beauty midst delirium and sweet, sweet chaos
To clasp her hiding hand and to endlessly cradle her left breast
By way of complete adultery she’s the chosen one with fear whistled near her wailing heartstrings
Her choices have been rolling over in their grave, yet her libido has been anointing him the soul-bearer
Typified beneficiary
He will roll over with her gain-less gain Time again – Does terrifically strange things to estranged strangers
And a seventeenth one-night-stand stands mysteriously erect out of a hidden craving for pompous portrayal
All of this whilst McCartney sings “we can work it out” over the airwaves of one lonely Chelsea Hotel radio, when, really, they know that they shan’t
“We’ve been fussing and fighting my friend, yet this love for lust just cannot dance…”
Destruction by way of curvature of the elongated hip – stripped of all of our demons in disguise
Here we still sit deliriously dilapidated and desirably misshapen – ladies aside sweat-arisen mental-men, this appears to be the perfectly poised portrait of sweet, sweet evil
Plagiarised betrayal and one day they will release the truth of their hidden ways
Midst their shallow alabaster graves
Eleanor Rigby’s disappearance has been a thing of utter promiscuity
