Calculated Poetry

It’s calculated parody,
A no-equation-poetry
The final nausea
Vulnerably flexible,
Not splitting, splattering
On stoneware and Porcelain
But shimmering white – Der Preis für die Liebe –
Italian glazed tiles.
Crashed are my boxes of paint
Purple crush on your blond pageboy hair:
In Asymmetry
Lines must fall.
All by your leave.
And give me time to pay for it.
We’re in the year 25
Since I first craved 4
Don’t want to say it
Just so.
It’s a parody, my calculator.
I’m hooked, I’m here.
Like an open equation
I’m worldwideweb.
Not for a joke, it’s poetry.
When it first began
The spin-spinning affair
With your hair, your fabrics, to pass your idle time,
That Summer was
The green-spleen gap
For further writing —The fountain-pen
Of 25 juvenile years
And three months more —
My Irreversible —Waste of Time.
Deep in the house
They question me:

While this is Anything But Cryptography