poem with made-up words

Root cellar girl
tucked in there among
the glangsnide carrots
bins of yams and
winter squash.

Unconcerned about clean body
unconcerned about health
unconcerned about movement.

Very very still
cultivating allsomely
the snorval fear dissipates
sapent sworls and commiserates.

Pigtails, childish hips
enwrapped in tantrums
of a crocheted afghan
mesmerized by all the Aquarian
techniques that mitigate disaster
those dug-up dahlias of desire.

How are you?
Don’t say anything. Wave the arms
say Huh and Ram as loud as you can
verbalize without the crack and skull.

Do not like the grammatical imperative.
Do not like the wanderment.