this peculiar notion transmigrates into a startling potion,
one that creates, not slakes human thirst,
a consequential first position for those who are in possess
of a direct line to gods who hide in the pitch black,
perforce one must make discrete deferential inquiries
avec une politesse indirecte
just in case we are wrong
(honest aside:
as composition proceeds, ear buds fill me with
Music of Transmigration, notably Op. 11, of S. Barber making
contradicting souls passing through me tenable and malleable)
naturellment,
loud radio silence, was I naive to expect otherwise?
perhaps god is not the subject of this poem
but perhaps the author(!) who's
just keeping his "hand" in the poem game,
spoofing human memes,
with a spot of fun even in
New Z--l-and-other domiciles
after all who has more
nominalistic titles,
is cursed and blessed,
by almost everyone
at least once a day, and in
a thousand different names
with an impishly
cruel sense of what this human gig
it created.
is about
tonight
I am a composer,
tomorrow’s decomposer,
or just a funny named follower
ah,
the answer is in the
data