Wallowing in Gaudi's Babies

So here I am,
wallowing in Gaudi's babies, but
Antonio, is not quite as big a
rascal as Screamin' J.

Hawkings, whose one tiny-tim like
white boy sun,

is Stephen J. Hawkings,
The dark zombi astrologerm.

Germination is all mine.
Germination is all mine.
Germination is all mine.
Germination is all mine.
Germination is all mine.

Fat children need to learn their place,
is what the devil bird of the lord says.

I will put a spell on you,
and that spell is not astrodynamics
or physics, but is something closer to

watching an amoeba
"french up" a hollow jade cochlea
with a tuning fork
disquised

as a Narwhal brand
pedestrian condom tank,
or what is known in Zumthria
as

Panzer ala Onchestos
or that shrine in Boeotia
to Poseiden called

"the old man who couldn't hold his tongue"

Can you imagine chewing on a rubber pancake
for around 8000 years
then looking in the mirror
and saying

I know about impellor research
but can only make for Mama
an Imam like poopoo.

It is griddle,
and all over Charlie.

Disgust my rockets, now, now

Is this a "Hipster poem,"
a "shot from the hip,"
or an "Ode to Hipparchus"?