Glance of the paradise organ

I was born, once, was given a roofless skull I follow
little weasels on they clutch their tininess
the twine of grammar has befallen the world I reckon
the swallows know a good bit about jazz
people inherit the cosmos and abuse it I wallow
in a muck only known to four-footed cupids.

The sweetness more than that the ridiculous
power of sensing so often every second it cripples.
Mathematics the poor birds drift on so sane they
swim in the air our bodies broadcast sadness on.
The planet of seven billion miseries and grammars.
The habit of being in a thought factory.

God his house is made out of nuns but where
God goes his house it follows and near
God the boys of Rome shave their hair in
God’s mirror the callus in his eye there
God said let all mammals live with insult to
God their floating voyeur never refereeing
God himself he wound up sipping rotgut coughing.

~ by Jeremy on April 13, 2012.

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