Say So Doings, me implored and lured into what none-other than my 40+ age

And being called to the cavalry of what spoonge you see, my maturity, the on-screen lightened paleness of a seem stressed without a pleasing sensation of erotic pleasure-me and go-easy, the peepers of them being mine-eyes, focused forthright when I see what’s a long-standing pipe about ripe, and there’s a trick of up my sleeve that Eve bit the apple while Adam stood (naked) near the tree of the Apple MacBook Pro, providing Adam and his hypnotism of The Lord, God, directions—sternly announcing, Church candles bouncing—I remember the over-head lamps in The Charlton Federated Church would be seen, thanks to electricity—the lit fixtures bulbs bouncing either UP/DOWN but that’s all to Jesus Christ’s “Crown”—being Thorny in a way of Torture amidst his skull, cramming pain, inside his brain—I forget what day it was, way back when, what came first The Egg or Mother Hen? and then what to-do, you, there, don’t forget to make a list and comb your head of hair—I don’t care about male pitter patter, get at’tem batter, shown the signs of age and rags of a man’s slender grey and white hair like me 40+ years old and follicles not yet falling, but pressured breezy in the winded grain so golden, the wheat—BUT NOT “the weed” (!!!)—like with me, it’s not “To Be Seen”

“Making A Scene”