Rants of a Time Traveller

What is this indifference
badly sketched by citizens?

No precision with this junk
shoot me, and no-one flinches much.

I dont understand your maverick minds
resolutions seem to burrow and worm inside.

I am just a Victorian thief
with talcum powder, and an embroidered handkerchief.

You cover me - like art.
Paper hats and swords that ring
- the frequency.
I'd like to know exactly where we are?

Why does the picture box contraption have a voice with no chords? A
face with no features? A soul, but no real innards?

Brakes are not the only way to stop.
These dull paintings on the wall need some touching up.

Simple toys that worked in 1880
fail now in the hands of your so called apothecary.

A dosage of the herbs will bring good favour m'am
though your rosy cheeks will be scarred forever.

Courtyard junkyard, farmyard, tell me where we are?