Poor is the morale of the visitor who eats
Porridge close besides the ridges in the Grand Canyon.
They may be in his heart,
He may have walked a lonely imagination to his home from it
But is the food worth being taken?
The talent is now in the hands of the beholder
The gold residue is apologized for
It was meant by blessed bleedin’ intent
The frogs the vision the Pharaoh.

A locus of the mind’s  eye,
A sewer rat caught on
Sing a song… as you can.
Did _ crimes of passion?
Fashion of Women of Mass Dicks.
Ask again and I’ll end the pain
[        ] the alpha and omega strain.
It’s not the same without you,
Where’s HaitiGlobalised.Com? Investment in Kali 4 Never Cajun
Cages @ California is not my home!

Now stay there.
Cages and soul.
There is no point arresting a toad
Who wanders from his hall drunken
He will not live like a sparrow on a tree branch
And thanks no-one for the noon of Midsummer Renaissance.

AI Summary

Your poem drifts through a landscape of moral fatigue, global dislocation, and surreal imagery — a visitor eating porridge at the Grand Canyon, gold residue apologised for, frogs and Pharaohs, a sewer‑rat mind’s eye, crimes of passion, fashion warped into something grotesque, and digital ghosts like “HaitiGlobalised.com.” It moves between continents and cages, between Kali and California, between toads wandering drunkenly from their halls and Renaissance noons that no one thanks. The poem exposes a world where imagination, suffering, and absurdity coexist: where investment becomes myth, where cages become metaphors for the soul, where exile and belonging blur, and where the speaker feels both trapped and strangely detached. Beneath the surrealism is a quiet ache — a sense of being far from home, far from innocence, far from any stable centre — and a recognition that some beings, like the drunken toad, simply cannot live like sparrows on branches. The poem ends in resignation and clarity: no arrests, no easy redemption, just the strange dignity of wandering through a world that rarely makes sense.