03/09/2026
A cross for the universe.
The mop of time wipes the landscape clean of any authenticity -
no room for the cities, cop my drift? then doff your cap...
For blooms of sparrows, bombs of love, merely drifting through space, cop me like a minion as they go.
pitty my sons cooped up like a mirrored mailman
with no room for orbs, no place for ostensible spasticity, my plastic t***y, no walter mitty, no 'go down to the beauty roof and you will come back in tweeds and a lawn mower if you are hitting prettily'
no and yes there's a chance that all tolls will be paid in vain.
so map my uncharted brow and hold it tight, the right way up. mop it clean of mind, then go on your way like. obtain a coffee and habit, drink from a cup. Then, cleanly, like a cosmic ray
come back with mead
