Surréalisme, Old School

So I too may share in the National Poetry Month festivities.

Ne'ar too much nor too little, the shamus multiplies -
the raving line amusement, the body on a string,
the world of simple sidewalks, delirium in pens,
a rollback of the caskets holding infinite realms.
So many come between us, in the dictates of the red,
we're lost to contemplation of the wheeling and the bred.
More dealing in the anchors of the dead than got there other ways.
The augury lies decrepit in passive bonhomie,
the weeks of thin disturbance serve to threaten coterie,
the dang imploded roadworks always glisten with their ken
aggravated samsara dolloped on the trend -
an eerie liquifaction that bleeds among the reeds
in voices disconcerting as the heavy auger pleads:
spritz up, it's all a fable, a locked and scenic jest,
a holy horn of indigestion, a stone quicksilver guest
left hanging in sand palaces, river unctions filled with whey,
immortal captors of a disingenuous play -
so the diva makes diversions last all day,
the oligarchy of the ne'r-do-well that bitches out a phrase -
redeem, redeem your savings stamps! The others merely lean,
whole valleys gone, destroyed by irregular verbs,
supressed follicles and rump roast, sophomores and cans,
the lily lizard will be free and we will film the body dragon
as it pipes a curling mushroom to our heads.
The lack of sentimental chutzpah reflates tires' albatross,
it gains suspended animals, who lie about their glamour,
rather than stinging particles the famous let you eat;
we've all had buried filberts in our meat.
The disciples always caterwaul in segments lean and wise.
Why not just forget this all existed at one time?
The mice of structured circles call the hogs to epiphanies profound,
the dogs turn over income statements, the querulous gabber of the
stick
hung on raptures of connivance as the trick boats bloat my lips.