all hell lost low thuds

if i were a peach
on the great and idiot plain
surely my palms
would pitch up
would rotato
such that my hands
would be owls
were-owls fierce
in capes of henbane
and ilky sphurjati
rummaging the flatness
the all-coalescing flateen
until the nothsome
thingsum
would fuzz
and glance
until this orange owl
in the furry pumpkin
would say its fretful candle
to the lark of breath
opening its gruit-sac
to hail the risibles
with torn stars
atro-ezzi