It's for the love of breaking in one's
face in age. The nauseous queen blames
favour on a four and fifty singer's script.
It's either negative zero or even all of
its multiples, when pleasing guarantees losing
He walks in a mixture of Clinique
and nicotine. The eyes flutter quickly
with his image permanently burned in the
mind's final roll of Jell-o negative impressions.
Paintings on the wall convey a sort of
modern complication; involving polyester organ
donors, things between those and reflections
of the oldest corner.
Petition's original Mr. Missing is speaking
daemon dreams and an escapade's breathing.
Subtle actions appear like weeds surpassing
the likes of those bouquets picked solely
for artless winners, (too that self-serving
breed has never underestimated the power
of its own clichés), and sounding off the
warmth of midnight speeds the vultures
hearse of falling pieces.
The dinosaur's pocket slips into
comfortable things. Weak champagne
record fakers tend to large gardens
which bring forth adventures pretending
to get up and out of the bed. It's the prison
of innocent and epic of pleasure-soaking
fiends, when all sense is laid flat for those
to see in the end. Fat obvious knowledge
births miniature fashion platforms in the shade,
and the rest of them lose that rhythm, for
sake of retaining the system of being there.