HERO-SUMERSAULT

The seven-stringed tightrope walk of the Herro-Bukfencek - I realised long ago - is not for me. I'm accused of being lazy, of being vain. Where else could I go with so much excess weight ready to go astray? I try to flap my wings only on the ground of compliments and outdated romances. I seldom think about the foolish, the thoughtless. Their celeb waxworks can be altered at any time and at will.

I also have my inner secret labyrinth of sense instinct to guide me. The frivolous illicit needling of the ceda angels against my nature's rebellion - my obsessive wobbles can only be removed by the One Possible Human Law. The crater-holes of my eyes are shadowed by tearfully riming sky-crevices, and the world's vast-scale aberrations are always harder, more caustic to correct than even individual aberrations.

Even now there are harder dawns, when I chase stubborn dreams; I could, if I dared, open my heart boldly to the one who truly deserves it. My changeable, over-sensitive thorns, I fear, follow me everywhere; - The precious pots of my broken dreams I still keep as a cherished, sacred amulet. 

Wherever I look, a bewildering company of idiotic V.I.P. party-folk are snarling their vampire fangs at me. The stench of despised profanity has become inheritable. Some were inexhaustibly driven by the negative taste of prodigality. - From our skins, if we are not careful, will flow in abundance the rose-oil drops of hidden romances, of inner differences and tranquillities. Nor is there always a purification in pain that hopes for redemption.