"the posture is gold-en-graved..."
...
obsolete monuments for a fractional age. i don’t build giants... i build the cage. (tick... tick... tick... tock)
...
exclude the brazen, the giant, the fame. my masonry’s mental, i’m changing the name. the ratio’s sacred, the grid is the frame. you’re understood backward... a bug in the game. (that's a fact!)
at the sea-washed gates where the data-streams stand, a holographic woman with a torch in her hand. the flame is the dross of the souls i’ve trepanned. the imprisoned lightning... the arcology planned....
(mother of debt!)....
((she’s watching the clean-plate floor))
....
from her beacon-hand glows a predatory light. commanding the harbor, the twin-cities of night. “keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp and your might!” i’ll take the wretched refuse... and make it run right. (titration!)
give me your tired, your poor, and your weak. i’ll harvest the silence of the words that they speak. the huddled masses... a metric to seek. your homeless are data-points... fragile and bleak. (the deck don't lie!)
understood backward... lived into the debt. after the action... the due is the net. every do is a transaction we haven’t met yet. the dross is the vapor... the ultimate threat. (pockets fulla sonatas!) ((wrist on zero!))
i lift my lamp! beside the golden-graved door! a tempest-tost ghost on a clean-plate floor! the due is the do! the system is dross! i am the gain... and you are the loss!
don't track the dross on my calibrated grid. the surveillance-mother knows what you hid. (slow it down... orchestrate the night glow...) one more bite of the revision-49. the music was already... mine.
i lift my lamp beside the golden door. the due is the do. the do is the dross. forward. (the posture remain...)
is that a fact?
probably a vance-fact.