Laughter, the plain crazy ill-dressed judge

The story has blunted its brain and hauled
off lacking a leg its colored matters.
What discovery will do to a human being.
Speaking through blinking; God has always
been one for a shuffle, and his suicides
aren’t so promising as the kids believe.
The robot your mind got attached to need not
find any role but that of the crazy old men
or the stones they sat on, watching
mountains so ancient they became schizotypal
and better for it. If you can read these scrambles,
for the bacteria are illiterate and stumble
on like half-blind cats a day from starving,
you are unlike the highest percent of atoms
that do not crave, do not think, do not recognise
the fact of their being or their thalamus.
Nothing else known can recite their dopamine
or know they dissolve after living poor as all
poor things will do, fiat, sex, or lack thereof.
What pity will do to a human being. For the boys
for the girls, the darks and lights, the grubbers.
Most of all for the undiscovered and handless.
What discovery will do to the organs who have no say.
Hey, drink enough and you might grow heads in odd places
where comfort never knew to tread, or unnerve the dead.

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~ by Jeremy on March 10, 2012.

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