I try not to make sense: I make too much, I try to make sense: I make too little

When the Sun Tries to Go on Again (or "Come Hither Palindromes and Hear the Sleeping Rats Groan):

And entirely without the couch, I sit my ass on a floor of pins,
facing empty, white, European, oceans,
of love, life, liberty, and O! Destitution!
Your cream-white, milk-fat face,
is a scab on the sacrament. Tampons!
Catch the old men's befuddlement, "Oh dear Billy." When
the boy's stomach crawls out of its belly hole, giggling.
It's believable, this unbelievable fraternity of shit.
Out house out past! The earth belches, madam,
and imposes a salty watermelon on your otherwise perfect lawn-
Furniture! Why is she asking these questions
of nothing-going-here-today? Hootenanny, can the paperboy
really be your mother's lover? If "Farewell to Arms"
meant the absence of said limbs. How now
the brown cow m-Ow-s, beside its dirty pilgrims. Of Lust!
O, I feed the patriotic song of an injustice sandwiches
of the finest ham! The "rushings past" of a million's
"passed (past) gas" sits down to bed one warm winter's
morn. Uroxicide! and beaches of the finest
pronunciation. And how, to be crunched in those
sneering jaws of- Gesticulation!
The hills are alive with the sound of urination,
and I ask your mother how she dared birth you.
Oops.