The lonely public it disperses

A piece of tail never the handshook laureate that middle class
being what it is but by my death I’ll earn it grinning.
A mean pleasure there, a theory begot interest mightily.
The action of tryptamines in the brains their sweet mean
consciousness is a middling psychedelia every moment happening.
Folks them sober they simply mince feeble semantics.
Who told me that a neuroscientist he did fiddling in Rome.
If you are awake your nostrils open or closed you hallucinate.
If you feel the thirstiest nerve in your cheek palpate you ruminate,
only, and wonder how long you’ve smirked at your body awake.
With five mere senses you’ve attempted to regulate all what matter
does and failure that you are you fail as the rest of us miserably.
Chatterer, you sleep, you mean admission you sleep in that grim silly face?
The primates they dug up shame and buried it again sane as them shamed.
Wake up primitive you thinking the dream is but poorly divided up.
Woke up maybe thinking that tanned god on top of me and oh I gasping said
to the roof my only company where did those hips their handprints moaning go?

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~ by Jeremy on May 12, 2012.

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