Lugubrious thalamus, "on" the nerves,

when certain individuals enter into
my atmosphere, my florid gravimetric.
    High sky, yellowable uterine,
demonstratable allergen. When the blood
begins to flow, I'm like a Mamaluke,
ancient castles with florid flowers
of oleanders, dolce far niente, narrow
nasal, nature-fakers like Al Gore.
   Where is that obese zombie fumbling
off to? You cite information regarding
the fact that Humans have Burning Questions
about circus contortionists, but leave me be,
I just want to hear the violin & piano--
beaux art--hidden within the yashmak
of my apelike limbo.
   My erstwhile disdain for spittle-flinging
mouthbreathers is not quite adequate,
for who else can be this sizzingly happy?