Orson Welles Is Dead

So disgusted with poetry I read in top magazines. Here then is some silliness I might submit to "The New Yorker." Averted gaze upon Mars' shifting poles now roiling in the teapot, their anger lifted high beneath rigid sprocket's essence. But why, an angry pupil dilated, whose measurement again falls short of dresser drawers where it might end? Is this the object of my search? The mirror? Rising, falling, shelves laid bare, yet grass was not announced when BBC ended florid service, so Africa had little choice and thus could only merit. The earth begins to wheeze, but Orson Welles is dead.