If eyes train on nitrates and Night Train and pie plates,
Then I strain to hydrate the right way, defy fates.
If migraines are binate with eye strain, then prime state
Of primate can migrate from nigh great to life-hate.
Some dyed meats for fried eats, a triad of five treats
With ice cream, and wine drinks entice me. My inmeats
Are inmates. A victual ritual stymies
My visceral pining. I've tried to supply these
Inside things of mine with some type of an outlet;
I've had no successful announcements come out yet.
My guts are a hekatonkheires-miasma,
A multiple-megaton series of plasma
Explosions. The tendril-debris has been stretching
So close to my throat, I could speak on my vexing.
Though part of me yens to impart the commotion,
Let happenstance handle an uttered emotion,
My appestat battles that utter malarkey,
Like telekinesis coercing a car key.
"Forever you've had such infernal internals.
Your tears meant the tearing of pages in journals,
Your Valentine cards were the Plague to a classmate,
Your place as pariah would strengthen, not stagnate.
When smitten, you mouth-mix dioxidane, enzyme,
Quinones, and some water, ensuring the end time
Of intimate contact. You're human repellent
Dependent on humans--a pseudo-flagellant
Inviting a thrashing with none of the virtue.
Why let your disclosures takeover then hurt you?
It's easier living for opioid peptide
Than fixing a voice that's Colombian necktied."
My lumbering sex life is missing a pep-tide
(Genetic artillery dies by my bedside).
Corona-deforming technique made a misfit,
Should people receive it, they likely won't miss it.
A phone ring. A door knock. I stay in the chat room,
This bottle collection replaces the bathroom.
Un-problemed affection embraces a reject,
No judgment discovers a tick or a defect.
In there, I'm a paragon, blandness forbearer.
A captain of rapture with nary an error.
My words are good-looking and exercise often,
They're cocksure and jocular, able to scoff when
Referred to as popular. Also, they've kinfolk
Community-rooted and wealthy. A pin poke
Could draw out a drop of sangfroid from my scription-
Mirage and becalm a volcano's conniption.
The concourse I've conned has a concord: They're bonkers,
And encore for more of me. Fallacy conquers.
With help from the Enter key, entropy quickens
To shut down the memory sent by the dickens
Till dread past is dead past the point of revival.
I'm steadfast with web-craft, no nebshaft is vital
When adding to tales of aggrandizing mythos.
The tripe I've been typing, I'll not have that shit close
To images bearing my actual likeness.
And, plus, with a photo, my lies would be lifeless.
"Those profile pictures prohibit a swoon-fest.
Tortillas have functioned as potholder, spoon rest,
And soggy utensil, for sure, in that pauper's
Apartment. He's poor, with no genuine offers
For anything good, for he's hated by Horus,
And, based on his writing, a ridiculed corpus
Should suit him. He'll die from a botfly mutation,
A hungry-for-flesh-that-has-failed incarnation.
No starving when larvae start logging their yardage
Through feckless, impressively impotent garbage."