The Carbonaceous, in Summary of Celestial Cocaine and our Dejection

Mr. Triple Alpha in the soul of Señora Red,
at the shell casings of positron powder...  
  
The methane funneled through pipes from a sealed block real estate of carbon sludging to liquids  
at the fill of blooming apostasies of pathogenic relatives of leprosy,  
recalling the East Asian to her professor,  
"we are all stardust": the mold spotted Klinex and sun peeled lubricant tube  
and urban cow patties, where shit doesn't molt into dhalias at the slap of diarrheas.  
   
In the beginning of the age of this universe where our existence weighs,  
the red giants crusted over a carbon code in their exhausted hydrogen chain smoking,  
blown in 25,000 miles a second by supernovae,  
and plummet from black hole jets,  
sucked in themselves  
or nip slipped in the naked neutron star that expels its mantel.  
   
In all this talk of the love of the universe  
to break down and collapse its bodies into carbon-based lifeforms,  
bombshelled insurgent is rich in carbon,
and the sky is devoured in carbon derivatives at blurry sunsets  
once we've lit enough day to toss the lantern's oil to the tides in the air about the whips of sea up on the sand  
of the cigarette butts with plastic filters of their own carbon  
that is still pretty in the withdrawal of a shell's clam.  
   
Is it alright?  
Is it still stardust?
Yeah, the way the resonance of high energies of the alphas of existence within flaming monoliths  
gave weight of the worlds  
to be remembered  
in a carbon swamp our IPCC says is hot as hell.
   
Star stuff,  
but not of grace  
to which my carbon soul fails to buoy on a lighter plane,  
being of 12 atomic masses, each unit, after all.