my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect;
for those i am contempt with, i exhort the energy of tact.*

my exhibition of a lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i am in contempt with: an exerted show of temperament that says tact is evident; which makes sense hearing my father break apathetic silence in anger on the building site to fathom a solidarity... and me without solidarity break it clean & open... on the gargantuan drums of emotion, to have being a god equate with a *****’s ****** for a moment sanctified with “pride” in a miss händel's messiah playing in the royal albert hall and me in the brothel thinking it up in trumpet pistons, well... mickey trump. but how easily i would worship the narrative of a russian cobbler, had i two flats in st. petersburg and a chance to spot gucci and verdi together to **** off the russian slags of tight-nit suspenders... easing a forever-might-we-live face make-up that became surgery... how’s that? i exhibit my anger on people who can encompass the person... not the stage-fright fake personality...  blood is veined blue with honour less colder. my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i do not: i am contempt in anonymity, and with such anonymity i exert the energy of tact... silenced anger that brews a carbon dioxide fizzling out.. that never does... but burrows deeper than haemoglobin into marrow rather than the veiny aquaeduct; should have let the beast sleep rather than wake it in its full pleasure of a nightmare slept in.