Could somebody please critique this poem?
In Space
They call it "O," the point they make,
extending thence six segments straight
of which three plus directions take
called forward, right or up; create
their opposites - back, left or down -
which they are styling "negative,"
then stretch the ends past edge of town -
each duple axis, positive
and minus, perpendicular
to plane where other two may live.
These map-makers then go too far,
three signed coordinates t'assign,
three distances from ev'ry point
to get to any axis line.
What omnipresent powers annoint
these heads that feign to compass all
of space? They fear no vanity
nor reckon hearts of poetry
can sing their own geometry
where most ingenious pride must fall,
can rhyme how technocratic men
colleague in Mother Earth's disgrace.
Let reason's evil graphing then
in its cartesian plane or space
be closed in mirror pentagons
or by dodecahedrons bound
that center on the origins
of weapons formuls we've found,
derived by fiends who view 'til late
their cursed, fallen, broken state -
contracting them nigh unto death.
The rest of space can take a breath,
its denisens no more play rubes
all sliced and diced in squares and cubes.
Despite each migit-devil's jibe,
a huge icosohedral room
then let some poets circumscribe
about each moaning jail-tomb
so now imps view, at their release,
on each triangular bulkhead
old bards portrayed who've found surcease
from diabolic plottings dread,
or angels framed in trinities
who do with hellions what they please.