Licing Home, 3

Home is t/ telepathic folkballad silvercrooned
to my silvermatter by that rotund Hermes,  frozund Mercury,
albino Mr.Man, Our Moon. Eerie ivory intimation I'm already 
home, here on this eigengrau cyclepath 
by t/ jaundiced fields just past 
Marlpit ironbridge, where sickly Wensum splutters 
into a polluted ditch, next to black herbaceous border,
that may immure but cannot olfactorily obscure, inure 
1's snotlocker against sloughboattochinabound 
mercaptang of t/ Council Tip.

Nominal greenspace w/ brownfield ambience,
wastrel woods, where I am quite at home
is Marriot's Way about midnite, when hushwings hoot
& t/ local rapist calls it a nite, afflicted let us pray 
w/ karmic droop. Nitecycling home thru my true home,
these scabby woods that poetically jostle up
my ancestral bastard Vikingblood, as reflective oversocks
get sploshed by my birthright turnip mud.
Housebroken by Woden, or maybe just 
grewup slobberedover by Black Shuck
- O Shuckie duckie, mwah mwah!
& Diana t/ Hunter was my Pa.
Here's multiple choice quizzler f/ nil pwah:

is Our Sun, stella domestica:
(a) a Jewish mother from t/ planet Krypton 
      readybreking Kal-el as she henrykvells
(b)a slumlandlord w/ a weathermachine,
     who serves eviction notices of drought & famine
or (c) a fucking foreigner stowedaway upon 
      a resonant gravitational bounce off t/ Milky Way's
      Spiral Arm from 2000 lightyearsago, coming over here
      from Stellar Cluster M67, making all this trouble?