Where the stone rose lolls down Maxwell, gathering

         copper-slung soles as the bees loom
                                stockings from pollen:
 
(ripe reek of the comely 
 Japanese lilacs’ feathers
 inosculating inchoate glue and the 
 troubadours’ trill like grumbling rubbers,
 like tar poured over the ulcerous pavement) See,
 
                          there’s a ruder war
gone gargling bodies up elsewhere,
ardor and drama assured, but here,
where the traipsing gait of the ancients
squeals like a baby abandoned to bears,
there’s little more one might mind than a sniggering
street sign, muddling over and over 
eno yaw in a malleable murder of missteps—
 
what should a bevy of quail be other than quail 
eggs cracked in an squeamish skillet? Well—
 
Mars plays quarters with Welky Jankins,
watching the sluthering ichor chap
into flatulent vinyl and restive asbestos
rearing its head like an octopus pops from a black head,
getting twin stick-and-pokes over their 
bass drum sternums aglow with Cox
and Box now, duking it 
out for the honor of
boldly replacing a
fuse flipped, Box, the victor contortionist
 
what plump, cock-eyed, shapeless gob of a
godling chose for his prattling rabbit ears—static
 
of eggs cracked into a squeamish skillet
to bolster whose candle-staked all-star 
jimmy-crimped pumpkin-pie pancake platter
 
that destiny nudges now hourly
into to the crackling madder and
pulp-pale furze of sturgeon and fruit flies,
mocking the snow still penned in the labyrinth
Channel 10?