Mother Birds Bring Grubs

We're a little too disjointed for comfort -- but U won't care,

you're a sadist and your victims are your thoughts

and the Universe that parallels ours (Jutu).

Our world isn't dying as much as it's boring.

But to follow it, and I'm sure you'll want to, what

with images of astronauts and clocks and broken glass

(it's the Early seventies soaked in a dyslectic cypher duckier decibel

thingy) that ultimately pays off chronologically and thematically.

Let's meet after work at the bottom of this page.

My tortured soul is all the health and beauty I can afford

because I'm a mang!

This poem is so low it's sunk to the bottom of the page.