Locked away but not away; somewhere nearby but unreachable, a periphery so notfaroff it's always in sight.
This cacophony runs over me, over everything I see, everything I want to see: it's me.
Hiding inside&out, writhing about, taken out&in.
The final 17 years of American singer and musician Karen Carpenter, performed almost entirely by modified Barbie dolls.
Return to 'burn' only to find out you're already in that urn.
(Some of us) Still run down the same [mental&emotional] streets we revered/reproached/replaced as children.
This fantastical movie inspired by the music of Michael Jackson features imaginative interpretations of hit tracks from the iconic 1987 album “Bad”.
Rather pointless, rather stilted, fetid; not what we want us going after.
Still it's really tall. Still it's really floundering/falling/fading.
Strings together what's strung together (please use yr tether).
Your raging romp results only in rescinded regret @ the hands of radder cadets.
On the Clickity-clack Express it's clear I'm always under duress, unless I forget.
Shadows frighten what one oughtn't be gripping (that thing before/hind you).
Pounding backbeats beaten by [(Don't Get)] warm[welcomes]th.
Radical recurrences & rancorous requests raze my daze.
I really hope this is well-received. I really hope there's some sort of reprieve.
Onward, upward, greener [redder] grasstures.
Slowed, stowed, achingly retold.
Centrist revelations abound among repetitions & revisitings.
It's time the times met each other over & over.
Don't ask me why, but I feel we're about to cry trying.
