If this is not a dream, why the fuck
Have I been sleeping all this time?
I can't speak and for the first time
It's not cause of drugs.
Walk for me on me. I wanna be the dirt
You spit on, the ground you walk on,
The air that turns you on.
I'm not the power of sun.
I'm the son of the power!
I'll write my name on your back as
I'm always behind you when you're smilling, wanting more.
Slides of sharpest bytes cross my mind when you think about my bite.
Slight foam of paranoia rules the family as I wave.
Vasco Pompaelo
A form of cultural prostitution and social suicide
