_                                              
 _ __   ___   ___| |_ _ __ _   _    ___ ___  _ __ _ __   ___ _ __
| '_ \ / _ \ / _ \ __| '__| | | |  / __/ _ \| '__| '_ \ / _ \ '__|
| |_) | (_) |  __/ |_| |  | |_| | | (_| (_) | |  | | | |  __/ |  
| .__/ \___/ \___|\__|_|   \__, |  \___\___/|_|  |_| |_|\___|_|  
|_|                        |___/                                 
                                  _______
    ______           _______     /  ___--
   ( --- /          /      /    /  /
      / /_____     /      /    /  /
     /_____   /     /    /____/  /
          /  /_____/     _______/
         /_______       /
                /      /___________________
                /________________________________

GRITDOME COMPOSED
By Cal LaFountain

We tempt
the star-fat angel sphere
through invention
and avarice.

Then, the lackadaisical crew:
mineral, barrels, muscle, fuselage
to work the sapped reserves and
gloss our shrine in
planetary tithe.

The first component
latched the coated
atmosphere, invisible bond in vapor thrust,
rear inset cobalt membrane
or, as the oily, helmeted chief proposed:
“Our reach for heaven’s ceiling.”

Tiny amassing observers
with centric feeders agape
in hope its virgin pixels may allay
our fears.

Their leers
replete with faltering lilts
and unknown rotes
shrunk at the view of
our hulking titan’s palatial nodes.

Our kinetic event
yodels the gist of innovation,
proof of metallic lords
the hammerfisted dawn approacher -
its alabaster chest,
the prominent, crowned amputee of wire, invention, avarice,
and frail motherboard.

And then,
a flush composure
in the first gear churns of the
wistful harbinger:

Our Gritdome Composed.

----=----

ROBOCOP POETRY
by Chris Moss (yes the one from CHRIS MOSS ACID)

ed 209
cant get up the stairs
what fucking loser
who designed its fucking feet?

(From his collected works ROBOCOP POETRY
https://www.facebook.com/notes/chris-moss/robocop-poetry/133638826705246)