Parsimoniously pathetic poetry

[Handyman]

If I could title this teat (Titan knees)

I want to fuck (I have beaten enough)
after cheesy bullshit (it’s also crunchy, gloamy, and stiff)
as if same I underwent (boiling to the holy bit),
ground up into a burrito (squatting fat ass so),
harry, the merry bunny blows (propagate woes).

I’m a piece of meat, a spear to treat (our wounds are bleak).

If I could not find, but to divine (custodian of the litter, feline)
this chatty, unworthy business of mine (each letter is fined);
to rule, confide slivers of doom kind (nostalgic beach shattered wide),
to moon, too soon, watch me barrage (nasty wave)
or buffet, waters or winds (radiance from splitting sins);
to except, lie like the rising sun (“normal” bun in the oven)
and stay the course of sires and ire (honor death, funeral pyre),
to stare and glare -- those drifting horizons (empty set)!

I’m just s’mores, barbecued bores (unrepentant campfire chique).

I want you to tell me if I am cute (bodies vectored, pupil slitting):
those color absorbent faculties past the felonius bend (producing hits vacantly),
a force of attraction beyond the Good and Evil end (law can’t break us),
that cutting tool with which you food tend (is not it that dream (contentedness)?).
If, and only if, my hand ((paw without pause) ness-ness)
with cursory prance on the command (glam, (Amon)-Ra(N), eidolon address),
carnivorously unbands minute flesh (Tik (coy)-(pick) Tok)
thus designs no time between trust ((I **** you) don’t @ me).

I’m so real, over going down-to-disappoint-feel (shame mires weak).
Before I perseverate (Otherworldly. Flat truthing. Forthworlder)
round quotidian triumvirates (Janus. Dionysus. Janus)
we should mesh blanket statements (zen(zen) zen again) --
we will catch imagination (satellizing transmission -- Xenograft, “What is human?”).​

 

[Handyman]

The nerve of Janus

Out of the options you outlined to gain your favor I chose that sign, but I didn’t expect remuneration,
nay, the corporate entities are too concerned with the contract to afford what is left
after I clock out -- like a phantom I slide by catechism for those still struggling with suppression --
fray minute hands, lay our hands, reach august craft.Truly, there is no end to this message?
Were it key of that door, my life, I struck since January I may have suspected tracking:
bounds and resolution. It executes no certain cleavage. But the first opening I thought was a ploy,

another office on top of the flight whose termination I preferred to forget the form at, a blank ploy.
The guard cried, “Not yet,” blocking the north, and as I had no time for his sense of remuneration
I exited from whence I came. Reappearing home I threw the item off my chain, the offense of tracking,
in the stairway no less, more unlikely it’s return to this destitute physiognomy, I have been left
dispossessed, I steeled myself to enter the rear before -- the new tenant who guaranteed this message
got Lost & Found with a fly-on-the-wall’s building experience.That night, venomous suppression

enveloped an insect which contaminated our connection, some entertainment defining noise suppression
is required to impart the myth of You and I. Here nothing and no one shall hold between us, or ploy
of psychic dissociation expand as the far stretch on space, and dinner may be break-fast off the message,
“Faithful, thou art famished yet pregnant with worldly goods, addled through vitreous remuneration,
there refract spirits of ignominy negging thy hesitation to dawn the service left.
I am the body of work thou wilt, lover of thy love.” I am used to mostly, boring, civil tracking;

fluffing clouds, capitalizing footprints -- jam a stake in the organ; lo, this ground enables tracking!
Everyone sinks me, the ultramarine, mercurial under pressure, resistant to pattern suppression;
that particular miasma rises, they gather around the premises for a hit of sulfurous Vermillion; left
additional monitor, background anamnesis, jade of a branching soul.This stand sole ploy,


{This one is still a WIP}​