Ultraviolent Deluge

[Brownlie]

I'm really ill equipped for a poem like this, but I'll give it a shot.  Maybe this is about getting an X-ray or something. I think you might be able to use the title to explain what is going on in the poem. 

Ultraviolent Deluge (working title) -- Why is this the title? Do you feel this title is performing the function of a title?

The surgeon sun sits -- The cool thing about this line is that I instinctively want sun to be the word "son." However, the poem can't be nonsense either unless it is like Lewis Carroll nonsense or something.  
where sky is a broken femur, -- I'm not sure how the sky looks like a femur, but maybe there is method to this.
where mountains are a ribcage. - I like that you are sticking with the metaphor here. 
Its all very neat -- I think this is a typo where you meant It's. 
  me feeling in tension
its all very clever     and I am
                a toy theory.

If I could control these gravitas,
the souls corona would be
re-appropriated and all other
   lighthouses would be      outlawed. -- I'm not sure how to use spaces like this, but I would research it if you haven't. There may also be a metrical hiccup in this line.  

I literally -- I think the word "literally" could definitely work as a good component to a short line like this if you explore the word adequately.
     cannot   read      
another
 bite.         Anachronistic     enough?
           Wholesome   enough?
     Brackish   enough? -- The pacing is pretty good here, but I am a little lost. Perhaps others can follow. 


Come on little gamma ray,
whistle   the sound of
   trees falling   in the sand
      of a poorly lit nocturne; -- This certainly sounds pretty in my head. 

its all very pretty -- Not sure if you intentionally befuddled it's with its. 
if there’s noon there to -- I'm a fan of this noon here because I'm tending towards no one when I read it, which would work with the overall anticlimactic ending of thematic disavowal. 
hear it.     Yellow-grey
on the     navy’s blues,
        lying    supine      on
transparent cellophane
bed frames, so that the snow
       speaks of sunburns.

This is cancer at it’s finest, -- You may have meant its, or not.
a cyst in the eye of a sinner,
cold shiners up and over
the inner walls of the spinal
column in today’s newspaper
at the end of the world.

It’s too hot out.

I liked it.  I think it could be more clear. I feel like there should be at least a superficial level of accessibility to meaning which you can then build on. However, I'm talking out of my butt here.