A December midnignt in Paris

[ellajam]

Hi, 67, welcome to the pigpen and thanks for the critiques you've offered others.

This is a tough poem for me, it seems  shrouded in images I just can't picture. I don't know if the problem is using words that don't make sense to conform to the rhyme or a lack of imagination on my part but there are some lines I just can't reconcile. Some notes below.

A DECEMBER MIDNIGHT IN PARIS. 

From giggly passages of ground breaking erections,
Past transparent blue yet impermeable nightgowns, With some work I can accept transparent and impermeable together but nightgown is just a stumper.
Come double decker routes heading two directions;
To either nearby junctions or far away towns.

Gathered across in varied shapes and sizes Across seems odd.
Are fuel powered rodents in perfect alignment,
Waiting and watching up until the sun rises,
Ready to pursue their master's next assignment.
Cars, I think, but do rodents fulfill their masters's assignments, maybe something other than rodents. But the visual is clear and an interesting way to look at it.

Two blocks ahead, in her fading peach splendour,
The friendless monster bids you a hopeless goodnight. All I can get is sun, but that doesn't fit friendless monster, I'm lost.
She puts to bed her perceived slender
And falls to rest, though standing upright. I have no idea what these two lines mean, perceived slender in particular is a puzzle I can't solve.

Below the fleeting rareness of the purple night
Stands the skeletal remnants of a once blooming trade
Whose absence left a party pleading for light.
Below is not age, but deprivation in its darkest shade.

By this hour, frost engulfs benches and rails,
And the faint glimmer of lamp posts guides no one,
For most lie in bed dreaming up tails,
Except for one man, whose bird nest hair was far from done.

Glued on him were fragmented sheets of faded flannel
And the occasional patch of harsh, malnourished skin.
As he approached, he arrested our flowing channel,
And kindly asked us, with a mined out sort of grin:

Could you spare us any change lads? 

At change the colour of his song had fiercely decayed.
Perhaps capital for him was a painfully distant trade.
It then became clear to me, I'm afraid,
That I again saw deprivation, it its darkest shade.

I'll stop there as this is in Basic Critique (each workshop has its own guidelines).  Oh, I have to mention one more:
"Except for one man, whose bird nest hair was far from done." Bird nest hair is lovely but for me implies "far from done", which seems added for the rhyme.

Your effort is clear, I think it would improve the poem to simplify and clarify a bit so that its meaning is not buried by novelty.
Good luck with it, I hope you enjoy the site.