Smelling the road at sunset
with knees bent and your voice is hoarse
showpiece,
to win fame
of millions of young people who want
your death
dogs to continue to sleep on the terraces of houses
painted. you can not grow old. Come
used as powder to pass on to the West
and then back east, climbing over fences
and cow tongues.
Admit it, you want a
glory
puppet with a smile just to burn
set. One
defeated can not convince:
should know,
now.
Enough of this trip-propaganda. We've only got
interrail,
grease and poor
DogGod.
to throw away.
trash.
you hate.
Yet
dear sons of bitches, when
climbs an old backpack on my shoulders, crushing
,
or fall on the soil of face
rough
I feel your presence near
,
ghost.
Your breath alcohol
back on my feet,
timing.
It blows away the barrier
in red and white flashing light.
The road is free,
after sunset.
Rays pale horizon
mobile
old America. Copyright © 2010 Gianmarco
Galuppo
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