Cenotaph of an Ellipticiste

 --for Elizabeth Treadwell

 	The hatred
of mean things, feel-good answering-machines, pale rider
sucking a fig, mambo king mausoleum: these are Mommy's toys.
The eels went out with the electorate, the Panzer division
went apoplectically down among the amazing, thrillseeking,
unleavened—what, are they children?

 Tha's a rhapsody, can come fum dis skinhead man?
Origami spoken here. Well, good, to hell with those manciples,
stuck where even a cat can't get them. Trade in that string of pearls
for a collagen injection. What ails thee, Sherry baby? Save me
some Bacardi, Bojangles—"and a velcome vagon to vobble home in."

Chastity sampled in awkward wise always walks awry: war's ally
  is awesomeness, money's is raw sewage.

So they padded kale with diaphanous slats, prying appliqued gloss
from barbecued anthems; parade teams ambled by in dirty wingtips,
sorry to see orphans fall through the cracks of a dud acquisition,

duh, my whole continent gone up in puzzle!