Run your slender fingers through my desert storm, whilst tumbleweed blows past mechanical vineyards.
Although it feels like heaven, it would be fitting to acknowledge the indulgent nature of our deprivations.
How diabolical are our interpersonal dynamics amidst customised motorcycles with forked tongues
where the societal corpus callosum facilitates communication between hemispheres of cultural polarity.
Let us expose the violence that is submerged within suave guises of sophistication.
I am already seated in the dunes of contemplation where the sky at night reveals mysteries of silent amazement.

There is a beat, where the rhythm of questionable origins pulsates throughout the uncertainty of our lost generation.
Insects which crawl into the darkness flamboyantly portray the message of Liverpudlian honesty,
Whilst desolate railway arches echo the sound of destination in the face of bewilderment and a heightened awareness of loss.
Oh, to be found in the midst of the brickwork tunnels of death!
I remember how the sticky leads of the ECG scan and my declarations of abstinence merely resulted in intravenous gambles with the reaper of the ancient abyss.
So, I urge you to burn incense, my friend of forgotten rock festivals, whilst I seek to connect with your vein.
You are a lifetime away, yet you are ever present.
Thank you, for sitting with me in my hour of death and for your Isle of Wight being.
The price of MD 20/20 will be etched on my heart forever.

Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.

I am lost for words, as I am empathic with the planet.
Although we truly stand in line for death and the afterlife, it is important that we mother our young.
I do not deny the allurement of sociopathic inclinations and I heartily validate the sexuality of suburban expression.
But, we both know – politicians rise like winged beasts from the murky depths of sociological oceans.
Can I touch your skin and give you compliments?
I love your being, just as it is.

A mere flickering shadow of innocence is engulfed by a tidal wave of abominations.
Although I have been stolen from the wings of the elements, I perceive salvation in the face of eternal execution, as the sound of the bubbling brook cheerfully communicates to the Mare Tranquillitatis.
Oh, cratered regions of death – your guise is blatant, and I have not yet eaten.
So, I bow in humble acknowledgement of such treasures of frivolity, and consider the aroma of baked apples.
How magnetic is this attraction?

How delicate are your thoughts as they dart across this barren wasteland of disconnected paralysis.
They are like a procession of lost souls where Armageddon is monopolised by political wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Although social responsibility is upheld in collectivist cultures, mass conformity perpetually showers her wages of betrayal upon the ravenous souls of materialistic and Western denial.
What is the time?

What are the legalities of coleslaw?
Are they the mere sum of the whole where chocolate is presented as a thin skin which spans the surface of a wheat-based figment of elusive imaginations?
As we casually stand under this winter sky, it would be irresponsible of me to maintain silence as we race towards the beginning of a checkered board of savoury perplexity where the science of food may be held in question.
Are you ready to remove your coat?