no room for the facts

packing the moment with mere words, we set out to see at a glance all underlying threads, the touch and go of the half-way house, no home truths can find us there

our survivability is a labour of love, a rescue beautified beyond scruples,

we can’t tamper with the straw in the wind or dip into an unknown mincing of words, that backlog will summarise itself and steal the show, no doubt

if we can tear ourselves away from the watchdog and crack down on everyone for themselves in this ‘just kidding’ trumped-up token of symbolization, let us split your linguistic bellow in exchange for 2 parts chewing the fat, 1 part tongue-tied compendium

so your stainless sackcloth abuses its own comeuppance, for a daylight rehearsal of all the soundproofed dramas, this dresses-up manky veneers a treat

let’s say we were to complain of intimations beyond recall, our sham phobia, what good would getting away with it do?

I’ll tell you, from now on casting represents rather than sports unstintingly solitary quests, passing ourselves off as cantankerous we banter about double vision and lower our sights for the quantum leap – owing to pangs of innocence this restoration cannot continue – so there you have it, bring out your golden rule, slap it in this hemisphere and pocket the pushover

if it’s all the same to you, we’ll mar our own hype without much difficulty – “hardy misfits destroy hopes of anecdote”

in the era of outlandish felt-tipped futures devoted to dividing the line – the argument goes – yes … no... yes… no… without room to breathe