to be read aloud in one or many funny accents

Left alone in the tumbling mass,
Up smoke and hopeful hate,
Ahead is not the past,
Tomorrow was my fate.

Ahem:
There is a dream where
hyenas rain in catfish dance
in pitter-patter lockstep gears,
twitching, clutching -
and sniffing tells the inescapable truth
of the tornado
which is just a hyena catfish,
after all.

Alas-
In inter-strung webs I weep.
What it means is up to the lantern,
but as of now straight laters toss up angled, noble heads
and open gnarled, able mouths
and unleash the call of honest complaint,
but it's hidden - drowned! out
by a mile,
out by the shush-a-rush and that old thing, the frown,
old and solid like a smell in the dark
until next time when it'll be just the same but you know -
I'm here and I write what I hear.

Clearly there are tunnels with
purpling wispy fingers and
other stalks which extend,
in boom and bloom,
and then heave up from out the ground.
And when they heave out, unbeknownst to them,
they also heave in,
for all is tunnels, and all tunnels look alike.

Ahem.
You have a cushion
I have a cushion
Your voice is orange-green crystal tubes
and full pitchers of sangria seaglass
My voice is ash.
If you squint and tilt your head just a little,
like this,
you'll see that my name is Gerard,
my nose is courageous,
my hair is wispy and fair,
my glasses askew,
and I come bearing baguettes.