the plight of this concoction

depending on this shakey sign, this stepping-in to appease the tumble in motion is the sweet smell of compulsion acquainting itself with another priority

is there an afterwards to put into effect or can we originate from impassivity

she struck a cord, shifting the background, a craze for exclamation, a treat left just a little too late, which nevertheless throws light on an aptitude for silence

in allotting reception its place in the omission, we lose a chance to leave our careworn utterances behind

living with the evidence or racing to the source of split milk is hardly the point, it’s a matter of kneading, pressing the rent out of shape to salute this brain-teaser of a second chance, knowing only too well it is nothing of the sort

but participating anyway, we are a long way from the kleptomaniac’s ideal you could say

embodied in a knotty plan the trackless deep is distilled, the precious stake in escalation

as we thin out our interest in concoctions that once lay in a bend in the worldwide halting, just shy of arranging unprecedented ladders up to the junction, an ad hoc junction at that, unparalleled or anticipated

at that moment of relief she takes care while trembling in the balance of that outstretched arm waiting to catch the pin if it drops

compliance, at a time like this, misrepresents progress and bursts the seams in high places

the plight…

spot-on or dead right, take your pick

a sobering thought or an amusement arcade of riddles drowning in magnificent detail

an assurance flapping with madcap application

take away fluctuation and quote the gods all the way to touch and go

on all sides a head-on asymmetry, corrugated and cutting, ripples into dynamic pieces

wending this way, taking soundings or spooning ethereal spill into absence

we thought about drawing attention to invisible returns, like a pair of smarty-panters pronouncing a cherished best-selling difference

with no inclination for winning over, with no listeners to contradict or incite, we were layered with distinctions, a chapter and verse to all appearances

carried away by a landslide of farce that wallops motivation and demonstrates against enclosure, the still note of unpromising possession culminating in a discrimination against effort that periodically exposes the hypocrite

a mania for fly-away chance - protect this hackneyed stream -

dip back into the pit, as now and then its studies us to see the state of our history, a place of entertainment, accomplished by burning all the traps

and still we show up, setting another stage with masks, making off with the elbow grease, wearing away caution, if ever there was such a thing

and yet we cannot be dissuaded or caught napping – if we had been prepared, but not for everything, not for the whole illusion, but for those palmy days, a golden age of only hours

then the bright shrink-wrapped fallacy could have discriminated between assuming spot-on ambiguity

(our favourite imprecision is dead right)

and making little, or nothing, of catching the eye of a closing door, speaking of immersion as if it were a misquote and then the real story runs parallel to the catchphrase that rambles on and on and on