Is this considered good poetry? Fast and bulbous, that's

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Is this considered good poetry?

Fast and bulbous, that's right, the mascara snake
Fast and bulbous, also a tin teardrop
Bulbous, also tapered, that's right

Pena, her litle head clinking like a barrel of red velvet balls
Full past noise
Treats filled her eyes turning them yellow like enamel-coated tax
Soft like butter, hard not to pour
Out enjoying the sun while sitting on a turned-on waffle iron
Smoke billowing up from between her legs made me vomit beautifully
And crush a chandelier
Fall on my stomach and view her from a thousand happened facets
Liquid red salt ran over crystals
I later band-aided the area, sighed, oh well, it was worth it
Pena pleased but sore from sitting choose to stub her toe
And view the white pulps horribly large in their red pockets
"I'm tired of playing baby," she explained
And out of a blue felt box let escape one yellow butterfly the same size
Its droppings were tiny green phosphorous worms
That moved in tuck and rolls that clacked and whispered in their confinement
Three little burnt scotch taped windows several yards away
Mouths open to tongues that vibrated and lost saliva
Pena exclaimed, "that's the raspberries"