So to be great and great again in the modern mood of things and the riled up running won’t run for the running is all and nothing but for fun or some thing to do with your brain. And brains are spelling for some kind of toggs and go to goat, like goatland or flying in the crowds. Your crowded head in star warp, six or something for then and fun in the game goes bun up…Time for nothing again, in the jeans, no mean thinking to do, just rumble play. Not mean, just alive and grey to the hilt with some form of form or of linking delight to what. The sheesh in the middle of things. There goes stuff for a riddle.
ride to make world happen, you roam all for not the chance of stuff, then stuff goes for the window and grabs feet before studied pose makes happen last chance to shine the water. feet for your star culture, nose all starred away like mole in can from museum of plastic animals, written for them chupa-chups! when all that cringes, doctrine in the shorts. purpose or some purpose for the weather. these rank dabbed-bills, on the traces of boots or some stuff or foot stuff for light wear and tear on the cardio, nothing for the trembling, just gotta do with.
tithe to shake girl-cabin, to loam wall snores what stance what snuff, when tough rows oars the shin goes, stan nabs sheets. war-studded prose shakes sappy cross dances, two times the daughter. or something something, you now.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."