Two Twin Autopipes for Moon Raiding Sculptures (Original)

I have riddles-sculpture square squabbling horseshoes for nights of tempted silence
in my own scared, but assured reasoned belt-boots like a drying canvas over the candleberry stipend
like rooms for doors over steam jacket orchids where oligopoly structured windows
are never stalling under seigniorage weights like glowing asphalt glory and tired ham-stirrups

Today is the last day of my worn out existence, where stymied fish go to circle
and feathers come undone, tales of great indifference go ratting out my great post,
drifting for no reason than to call me out as undone and defeated, grossly over-imagined
where scars read certain milk hazard saints, and weather balloons find a staddle marked equation

Scullion memories where dance-favored rhythm butter-cats smooth out the resistance
of curled mark time-rafts like pearls of Tuesday and broken chip-made stallions
raise money for waist-fed orphans like mothers of June and stale April parties,
today I have never know such a wasteland, but I try to sink water, where there is nothing

Hazard making raincoats and feaster lights in the darling scapegoats where autographs are certainty
raining here where jabroni snorts and rattles confusion and tiding scarfs leave Friday alone
leaving rasa of singing fast, never wrecked the tools of meager sun-childs like broken holidays,
like stair-weather cross-stich rehearsal and measure-feast mornings are writing my proposal

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Edit/Update, about 16 hours later: I don’t understand anything about this poem. It is completely streaming consciousness. I never write those type of poems for a reason. I think they are cheap and easy and not really poetry if there is not intent and form.