Quasida Eels the Lame Ent

I have shorn my balconied ringlets
because my ears house scorched bat things,
but from behind grey velvet polyhedrons,
noising elves are heard as a wheeping.
There are very few goat-crystals that sing,
there are very few dogs combined with malachite giraffe heads,
a thousand violins fit into the wheeping of my ipodhand.

But the wheeping is of an immense Vulcanized Doge, a mohawked pirate-karate' priest,
the wheeping skitters across an immense table, snakes of mercury are housing seawater golems in rapture,
the wheeping is an immensely vain display, like putting a vagina into a camel's foot,
the tears fuzzle the windbags in their camping stalls, a glory like that is a treehousebalcony and wine,
noising else is hard, but the wheeping is champagne in an emerald skull glass fizzing audibly,
a face replaced with Alien Seltzers.