Fishing for atomic bombs. Here in the Sea of Okhotsk. Here in the sea of Oshkosh.
Fisting for atomic moms.
Empty face radio. Here in the back of the truck of the facts. Here in the back
of a truck
among a load of empty rusted broken facts. Why, here's Spontaneous Generation, and
over there is the Music of the Spheres, even Phrenology. Their configuration and aspect
are eerily reminiscent many of the Truths currently installed in the Hall of Knowledge up
on Myway. We, however, are barreling down that good old Orthe Highway.
Yeah, I think I'm a man now, I think I got kicked out of the nest, but I'd
sell my wings
to get back into the nest. I'm not interested in the postnest life. get me back to a
fucking nest so that I can rest!
Certain birds are not meant to flap, but to roost, ponder and sing.
Fishing for flashers in a sea of atomic bombs. Atomic buoys. Atomic buboes.
I am the son of antarctic neverworlders. Antarctic nerfherders.
A lot of empty sex.
Something wet yet audible
Modified on an anthill