Conform if you wish to that taffeta norm where you're clean and crisp, sparklingly bright condemning the night to an endless quest.

Best foot forward, two steps back.

Follow the magnate through the factory gate, drill your own teeth confirming that state is the new God, but I'm the old sod who will always be the odd one out.

Capture the dance,
Oh
sweet death's
a romance that flits across dreams.

I am in awe of the door ajar
the step too far
the car out of control.

I drink my cocktail of Molotovs and cough out a firestorm
conform?
ifya believe that
you must be smoking dope.