The security button has been pressed by a finally legal immigrant from Indonesia — a need to impress, to remain vital, disciplined and loyal to the system that pushes individuals to be frightfully obedient. (or beheaded, but this stays on the burnt pages of the book, come run after evidence in the عاصفة رملية season you big beach bum going to take one for the people, expat slaves and princes)
Marco Rossi, once more.
Again and again.
In his narcissistic seizure speech singing kind of last chance for love to revive in Miss Abbasi Barnes, the girl he met, surfing on the internet just some days ago, on a dating app, or was it by coincidence on the lounge red cushion sofa nightmare, answering to not so true fans with a dedicated and personal but equal-copy-paste happy new year video to feed the hormone that’s being built on pride and fame, yes, especially in the empty desert of drinks too dark to witness a difference between crude oil and Jeggermeister. Behind closed doors right, or wrong you decide.
Religion and science in a fistfight over justified loss of insanity. What cruel nature simply calls a deserve-worthy picnic for dilution.
Good luck. Bad luck.
It doesn’t matter.
We write spontaneous songs and not homework notes, around this “too warm to ask for a hug” street corner.
Rolling Stones 1969 “Gimmie Shelter”
The best one, ever.
Where you could be birds & bitch-watching, what’s left of human…
