Ground control

 

Last testament of Major Tom (space junkie)

 

History circles the drain

Looking for the gutter as

Things left unsaid tell tales out of school

There’s no time like the future

When your past is a kill switch

In this present illusion everything’s conditional

These countdown days can last forever

Travelling backwards to a simpler simpleton.

Find a quarter, pick it up.

Find an eighth, roll it up

Find a gram, shoot the metaphor

Death the circuit

Tin can’s gone, gone, gone

Can you hear me space boy?

Hallo?

Hallo?

Blame it on the black star.

 

©2016

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