The turnabout poem – this utterly nestled, twisted, bleeding mess of a woman with a famed frame to match her acclaimed face
Touches the two-tonne taste = the wanton weight of her favourite best glass of damndastardly anticipation
Relinquish these far-pressed feelings, oh, please. Spill and instrumentally release your accordion-covered fingernails, finally fair invitingly atop of another man’s shallow asphyxiation
Only then and now shall that cigarette smoke with its wisps of ultimate warlord replication feel as though heavenly both hellish and borne out from under-beneath the crisply cut surface of
Another wielded, febrile, fertile working world
Not one word though, but for the width of his favourite best brain when pressed gently against
Her story-boarded chest – tattoo-emblazoned and fashioned-from-derelict-fiction, baby!
Here we go again
With our wild encyclopaedias rested astride
Our mild realities
