The Odds are 42 to 3

The odds are 42 to 3… the blushing brilliance of the bastard moments is such a pristine façade. It’s almost static, almost pleasant and almost always fatal. The concentric pull of circumstance is livid and lusciously overpowering. It renders you a helpless beanie baby, yielding and bending over backwards to avoid confrontation, conscience and correction. The ever impending doom dances shamelessly on your horizon, yet you fold. You chose to ignore. You concur yet not conceive. What a wicked way to be. A step forward and 298 steps back. Sideways falling and gingerly peering. You the rag-doll… you the rag-doll…

Sorry for the absence… but I am back now.

Over the weekend I shall be posting the redone “Dirty Street Lights”, a very rem-ish ditty. Till then…