(com)Putaré.
Roman in spirit, I reckon:
pure, amputation,
standing, Greek-still,
numb, counting our infinite
orders. Ordaining but mainly
still, metastatic: a system,
a yes and a no.
More relation than thing,
pure burning forge, binary
burnt to instruction constructs a prosthetic,
so here:
clamour and rattle, flutter and struggle
requiem whistler, your Kyrié Eleison!
Strap up the tap shoe: Hop ! Step ! Brush ! Slip Off!
fall crawling, follow the echoing absence,
of world?
O, there are worlds for this:
Charles Simonyi sang in a soft tiny 'C',
reserved for himself, tautologically,
the in and the out of it:
[#defineNEARnear] and
[#defineVOIDvoid] I
swear it is true
(parenthetically) to itself,
otherwise go
wherever
you get two.
Virtualis.
Rootless, I reckon:
(hu)Man, reflected (my pidgen) in
vir/us, nest fetid (putére)
Stinking like poison, our
pigeon Kingfisher, the bob and the strut,
picks at its nits, an ubiquitous flutter
inside our openings,
pigeon souls digging
deep pigeon holes.
Souls: Log On.
Infect space in between
system and structure. Logged or afloat
in the time-slice,
the churn smoothing bios (for us!),
to be construed:
Basic Input Output System or Breath,
(Soul, to you)
You know the drill,
down to the psukos, I reckon,
some zoon logon, so
pass a word over: Are we on?
We are off!
We the prosopopoetic (figure it out)—
Warm mask on the dead.
Dead? No. New (at long last),
some thing no older
than its own name:
(declare:
[NAME]
"remember this fire"
***the step was always downhill
(PROCLAIM:
“here we are again”
Here we are again
A£¶šÌ & oÊ°ÔìŨÙ;–
again and again
<…ÚYš„¦ú•¥Ûµ¸e=Â:
a mask on a masquerade.
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 3:07 PM UTC
(com)Putaré.
Roman in spirit, I reckon:
pure, amputation,
standing, Greek-still,
numb, counting our infinite
orders. Ordaining but mainly
still, metastatic: a system,
a yes and a no.
More relation than thing,
pure burning forge, binary
burnt to instruction constructs a prosthetic,
so here:
clamour and rattle, flutter and struggle
requiem whistler, your Kyrié Eleison!
Strap up the tap shoe: Hop ! Step ! Brush ! Slip Off!
fall crawling, follow the echoing absence,
of world?
O, there are worlds for this:
Charles Simonyi sang in a soft tiny 'C',
reserved for himself, tautologically,
the in and the out of it:
[#defineNEARnear] and
[#defineVOIDvoid] I
swear it is true
(parenthetically) to itself,
otherwise go
wherever
you get two.
Virtualis.
Rootless, I reckon:
(hu)Man, reflected (my pidgen) in
vir/us, nest fetid (putére)
Stinking like poison, our
pigeon Kingfisher, the bob and the strut,
picks at its nits, an ubiquitous flutter
inside our openings,
pigeon souls digging
deep pigeon holes.
Souls: Log On.
Infect space in between
system and structure. Logged or afloat
in the time-slice,
the churn smoothing bios (for us!),
to be construed:
Basic Input Output System or Breath,
(Soul, to you)
You know the drill,
down to the psukos, I reckon,
some zoon logon, so
pass a word over: Are we on?
We are off!
We the prosopopoetic (figure it out)—
Warm mask on the dead.
Dead? No. New (at long last),
some thing no older
than its own name:
(declare:
[NAME]
"remember this fire"
***the step was always downhill
(PROCLAIM:
“here we are again”
Here we are again
A£¶šÌ & oÊ°ÔìŨÙ;–
again and again
<…ÚYš„¦ú•¥Ûµ¸e=Â:
a mask on a masquerade.
