The cradle experiment

Set up by a troop of single parent raisers-of-crabs.
The better than they shed their arms like frying men.
Too conscious oh cannot be oblivious of their bowels.
They call it the running game in their Khoisan tongue.
Soul inventing is a payless gambit here on the mount.

Kneeling formless on the bodies of untraveled artists.
The wheels they bought coil on spree-making solvents.
Every other word perchance they steal sounds foreign.
The two channels on each rail of the stem well-spoken.
Those bare-sketched streets to sublimating idiocy.

The thought-disordered artistry is one of trials.
Said Old God to Young God with his longer penis no.
No time to describe it since its climate dessicated.
Misuse of the robot folks’ beings were bonded to.
What the purpose is of having purpose owning clues.

Joy here let us volley joy at stuttering adolescence.
Latinates spread themselves to the vulgar everybody.
When salesmen say of course it is their relaxing sure.
Finding something out about is all whining unkempt misery.
If the genitals react to blues music might we hope more.

Thalamus dances on amphetamines for sixty hours touring.
Accent bounces between freeing and weathered trailer.
It has as many wheels as a man has limbs to kneel with.
What the two channels yielded quietly onto the planet.
A human being that calls itself a repeater of myth.

Five counted stages of cellular boom the first done.
Then a hardship of shooting foot by foot a little up.
Looking up where the soother as a kid quick-fries atheist.
The sounding genius so hardy my body flashed to wood.
Slobbers the done-nothing man about his normal boyhood.


~ by Jeremy on March 25, 2012.

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