I hurtled, my love.

I will let you down.

I am a liar, and can sniff and kill them.

The dead waters of my currency.

Pushing the limits and the alchemy of my life has resulted in an occurrence unknown to me since I almost killed myself through carelessness, enthusiasm, glee and carriageway. I cannot stop my blind mind.

A shard and a silver sliver of broken glass 45 years ago.

The scars can be demonstrated even as protest.

Hurt, opened by me.

Now here, in the cul de sac of ordure, wherever the sky has been occluded since late Saturday, almost aerosoled H2O, no sol, no soon, no orbital unless checked, in the evening evening of where my soul rests.

A small moon, not the amplified moon of two weeks ago, arrears and then disappears in the cracks of twighfight.

We are getting settled for a massive constructed faux fight, you read that correctly foo fighters, retard retard smog alert.

We have a big pea souper coming down and I can feel it in my breast. I walk the Queen’s Highway. Getting the cardio vascular ready for flight.

I am pounding the ‘crete and MacAdam in the arsehole borough, wearing out the horse shoes, burning the sole as my soul heals.

I  tripped, stumbled and fell. Face fall down in the autumn leaved pavement. Bruised, cut and stunned. Clown!!

Like an idiot.

Did the thoughts 2 U, illustrating my words, drive my fail?

I hurt.

I remember everything.

If I could sing.

What have I become to betray?

No thing.