8jtcj (cut-up spam poem)

some other childhood
is seized from higher
than you have oscillate
this has moved toward
any woods, close by, the
orange smell that quenches
every ray, nonentity in
most intense room... she
sits, brighter green to come,
astonished that you have
turned partly to stone, partly
the absence of fog from
juice factories with visors...
in the woods, writhing their
stunted limbs, pulpy stone -
absence of you close by,
brave recreational vehicles
in search of paths of
another childhood.