Song of the Carpal Rust

I see the radiation is rolling off my eyelids right into the sclera white to red I can't remember how to pick grapes with arthritis of the mind going north towards the wanderings of the crows that found that the cows have had all their ticks picked off their hide with smiling teeth so hiding from you seems an appropriate situation as the cacti gel makes the tongue swell with words that have a prickly nature the ice on the fence post makes for a new religious icon and breakfast is nearer to your derangement of conformity the hogs are rife with anticipation as the sun hatches new moles on your soul I see the contrast is too low for this all to become an apparent apparition to swallow especially when everyone looks at the holes in my hands like they had a magical worm hole to thinking correctly anyway