flay.
Until I reach your grief searing directly lay by lay.
I’ll see you waterlogged once I’ve cleared the path to gley.
My composition for you with a tempo andante.
Directed antithetically dolce.
Or if you will “Le temps frappé”.
Your laminated qualities are but components for a virulent parfait.
Those deviations, incoherence…why have you had another cutaway?
Filled to the brim with bifurcations, is that supposed to be your honed screenplay?
One simply cannot lead his life without byplay!
A book’s no good with fickle a donnee.
Unless it’s being written by the louche Vicar of Bray.
Your acting’s great, I guess I’ll send you a chrysanthemum nosegay.
I’ll rip you inside out, your guts will moan and whimper “nay”…!
I’ll cut you out then shake you up so I could feel your insides ricochet.
Your hope won’t breed you impudent offspring because her nature I shall spay.
I’ll knit your bones via technique of aberrant crochet.
I’ll feed your flesh to fiendish dogs, their heads trey.
Although I’m sure they’ll choke on this fillet.
Expunge ambivalence or I’ll make your extremes meet each other in a mortal swordplay.
Together they are detrimental but futile per se.
Who do you think would be the last to cry “touche”?
The one who’s grabbed a gun instead of an epee!
If they abstain, I’ll link them up using your spine as a causeway.
And with a scattered avalanche of dread your minds at last I’m gonna spray.
My taste is exquisite for I am a refined gourmet.
You are invited in the form of food for my soiree.
I’d drench you in some fiery shame, ignite it and we’ll get a marvellous flambé.
Or should I freeze your temper to the bones so that you’d make a fabulous sorbet?
“I could preserve you in sweet lust so that your brain shall be glace.
Well, I’d rather crash your pride and soul to relish in your life puree.
My mouth waters, and the tickling of my nostrils you are so unable to belay!
The browning of you mind has been commenced via sauté.
Your remnants I’ll drag underwater so that carnivore fish could have a cold buffet.”
Recalcitrance of mine was vanquished straightaway.
My troops succumbed to arguments that I myself could not gainsay.
Our ship stumbled as though water turned to heavily baked clay.
The greenish liquid became pasty and was served impeccably al dente.
Got toppled down, fumbled an offensive breakaway.
We floated on coagulated milk with all its curdles but without whey.
Some unbeknown forces covered wavy surface with that resinous parquet.
And if we were to slide it over, we’d surely need a non adherent sleigh.
We pulled the reins, it fell, we heard its neigh.
The agony had bruised the poor albino down to bay.
Then came the mutilated vessel’s gloomy bray.
Much like a cry of help of some prostrated, hammered-drunk hombre.
Which meant the sailing donkey was reluctant to obey.
We shouldn’t have harnessed it to our heavy dray.
From now on in desperation I will overstay.
I’ll hide in a deep crevice just like some moray.
Relationships were never my forte.
My heart’s glued piece by piece as though it were papier-mache.
It’s desecration you purvey.
And chaos is your wicked mainstay.
Of such atrocities that I cannot convey.
You overwhelmed me, devil’s protégé.
My spirit’s gone, I’m not okay.
I cannot frame the words to pray.
They merely scatter, edge away.
“I’ve come too far, and yet it’s scarcely halfway.”
Cries my grotesque naiveté.
To the salvation deck it’s pointless to make a getaway.
Alas, my crew reports on a blockaded, flooded stiff companionway.
We fizzle out and what we lack lies in a subtle interplay
Of shrilling cries, beseeching moans and harsh melee.
Alack, no shooting curses, no derogatory gunplay.
The fortress, drowning, fell under the liquid missiles of the sieging trebuchet.
“You’d rather die than simply turn an émigré.
When danger’s dead ahead you gently pull your fears sternway.”
“Your perseverance and a steadfast stand I could perpetually inveigh.
Against my boisterous depths you’ll fail to make a treacherous foray!
Yet you’ll eventually submerge my ominous abyss not to survey.
The havoc that you triggered trampling over their dubious cliché.
Being the one to rampantly usurp the throne of the ideas démodé.
Well, writhing in a torrid desolation that you overplay,
You are but a malingerer who feigns debility in a sickbay.
An imitator who has mastered mimicry of a Eurasian jay.
See, I love herons, and I’ll make you emulate one on a torturous piquet.
False prophet by the look of whom his lies yourself you can soothsay.
Self-flagellate and for the sins of yours your flesh shall pay?
What kind of master is it who keeps pain as a valet?
Thrown on a dismal, spiny wasteland, you will never blade your way.
Where all the expense of your insignificance dejection shall defray.
I wish I could absolve you of your ignorance, although I’m no padre.
I’m the one who’ll marry you to failure – that a most promiscuous fiancée -
Mrs. Lameduck, Lostcause, Lowlife so many more nee
Up-and-coming that a most seductive shay.
I reckon so that in this case unfaithfulness is far from being feet of clay.”
“Having derailed my own tramway,
I shrivel, no I pine away.
And so do all the forms of life shipwrecked to this secluded cay.
The void engulfs, it won’t allay.
The former discomposure, its clench light, I couldn’t but parlay.
Into this instability I’m ready to segue.
Salute a newly minted castaway,
The point-blank pestilence of latter-day.”
