Black and white, oft-tread and well-read. Speak easy, swing hard. Record this life in absolute truth, to mine the media and peak the press, to establish mint, you brilliant bard.
If… IF I were to blinkk this I’d probably say … Fame Kills … like chewing on pearls … oysters and aphrodisies, flights of fancy and fights of fantasy … drunk in love on cake cake cake … love made edible incredible Anna Mae … the chosen one selecting apparent wanderlust servitude … will and desire … grace to transpire … mental gender on Parade … bonfire of the Vanity Fair … Parisian blazes … Harlem faces … eternal embers … Pompeii … knockout …
Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun, and baby when it’s love if it’s not rough you’ll never come … masculine … feminine … rocket number nine blast off to the Martian … Hephaestus in the bath haus … Aphrodite perched upon the partition …
It’s chaos you might think, the tumult and toil … the endless exchange upon anatomical soil … don’t lay a hand, just leave the crust … seal it with a kiss, and bite into the dust … what Venus fashions, Gaia founds … that most amorous sight, and most resilient of grounds … the seed of civilization resides in the womb, a void only made niche by mysterious creation of the penetrated tomb.
Renaissance is futile the battle is beautiful. Not a girl, not yet a woman; not yet a man, he’s just a boy … 13 elements and so on said year, the metamorphosis completes, the separation collapses, in the midst of mirrored self, so spirit and ego consummate to eclipse all fear.