Yes, that’s me in the picture… Let me begin.
Live a moment in my unmovable momentous monument, it might merit your millennia, like it did mine. Seeing sycophants, building psycho fans with their slippery rants, they’ll all need to switch their pants when they get the chance, because the King has returned, skinned burned, skinny and malnourished. I pay penance with a petrified pen, play writer in the eyes of the Earth, praying liar flailing around in the fires of my moral wire or mortal-coil, my sport is horrible, spurting spectacular humble spots forward onto smashed mirrors, what hurts the most is what has been cast within us, the foreword has hatch the final villain, he’s me, bad-ass and brilliant, lavished in the ink-blood on millions of killed innocents.
As a matter of fact, it’s a matter of pride and it hangs high… Like my rope choking around my necktie. I produce each body of work until my body is hurt, emerged from this body of dark water to show you my curse. Should I have said sorry first?? This folly is my curse to curse on the cursed. I feek and wamble through forbidden parts of my flaccid foamy thoughts, welcome to my shilpit stuck shtick of a shipwrecked existence. I threap the idea of my deep pipe-dream and chisel into my bones, I will form my face on a platform of predictive pandemonium. Keep writing, keep writing; leave life within the leap of your lies, the skies are dull, a spotlight, I’m hit by cheap lightning, so I cheat at the chessboard fights and confess wrongs rights, righteously.
Rampid scarlet nights, wrap rapid around the pad of writers might, until I’m knee riding, let’s set this carpet alight, realign my alien mind, I put a space between ship, relation or friend… Why???
Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor the devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own will.
Dig deeper to find my heart, I will hold yours over you, with a xiphoid object, time stops to observe, I’m from projects, time to write more the world conserved.
Story Writer Alexander 