Queer I hear

Its queer I hear in the dimensions of the crust.
But who cares? Turns out people do.........care.
Under the black or yellow island sun,
Is a queer white sclera..... Genes, perception, basil ganglia and mitochondria rests and floats abode the blossomed crying gay man.
Hey man, religion can’t stop you... The men for whom we aren't even a product of evolution and as clearer they think they kill and disgust us with erroneous conclusions.

Its queer I hear as I emerged from the warm intoxicated petrichor.
Arthur Rimbaud. Ahh, my one true love.
Closed minded can’t reach where the open minded expand and pen down something like a starry night.
As pinned down and criticised you are my friend... for being who you are, will be blessed and salvated, for the anxious one remains a fool.

Its queer I hear, in the primitive books of Witchcrafts’, dancing in a gothic library.
Who cares if you’re gay... People do care.
Worn out from the meaningless thoughts and
rings of red empty breasts.
The difference is only that of a synaptic cleft.
Yet you’ve been dangled in the cobweb of tests.