Sunday Scribbling #192: Weird

Santa Baby struggling
into view, finds
handi-wipes, her
vision glaring, the blaze
of crafty juveniles
I'm carrying a torch
Van's always carrying
and we traipse behind
dewy juveniles
crested lizards
in our Lord Rochester
gimme-cup ties,
the feral feast
tied in knots
by the time
the carols are sung. Synonyms
hung, chestnuts roasting,
virtual charisma for sale
at the Valero corner store.
Those gams were
the cat's meow,
burning the retinas,
charged to the debit
side, Fats swinging
his ashen gaze
into the fais do do.
Liberation, mes amis,
is not the oreo
splendor your
gods had wrought. Castaway
desire touched down
at about half
past three, and into
our hands the suns
of ivory were sung. I
sing in the lonely
avenues, a passel
of blues bested
in the western climes.
Now the eyes
taint the words,
a limey conflagration,
Charles in his flat shoes
Larry in his bermudas
we gather together
at the river's edge,
the smell of us
mingling with the smell
of midnight: out of
sight, out of mind, and
out of mind, out
of the postal winds,
winding road winding
down, winding Rome
in the cataracts
still gleaming, winding
Tiffany in her
breakfast blend,
bending.