Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver
I.
Lisbon nowhere not as in nope
£ace lisbon lis bon lisp(€ng) bon li$[μ
IT] list bon lys bon€ lease bonUS yes
for us Ulysses’ a(i)ncestresses in dul£
ge€-ing in XLL Xcesses
of psycho(®€)[o]graphy and geopalindromy—
giant Jesus across the bay the Con
hecimento MuseU𐤌 peeking from under the old-sewer
exhibits into the MAAT—agape like a shark—So-
fay swims in the in-fee-nit(τ)y mirror ink
closure off of the free-entry castle of Cesar-
iny eenie meanie money innit exper-
son sona® todos os sonhos do moon-dough now
here not as in no place no place like now—
hotel room womb home-Rome hypogaeic flooded (Γ)alleys—
no-sight solely-[com𐤌pressed]-sound r€wound
flight of elevaΔor tran$Justa headed everywhere that 𐤍
ever comes to be noτwhere con($)tain(𐤕)ed be
gun giving di$located map app to come $£ate ¢
eases & ex-cysts & i$th[𐤅]mUSes now(/)here—
II.
only by being nowhere—all saints’ seismic silence—
no room onboard to carry away the who the hulk
the whole-ocean load swallowed by oceans of moans—
our off-grid gravity grave riddance solar sonar—
the worKing Us is born—$¢reeN airborne $exborne
L𐤅sbo®n€, all-over horny off-on lesb_OS drone—
No-hire desire, airy ore ire, hot a-bodily a-
doβe no bill, no bliss snob-kill tryst
at LX Factory—we rot and cough up excel-
file & selfie-funds—a Moor a foe go key$ are
day $ci say ver®€—LOL, in reverse, a messy Draco
of a Roma—sales pawn, rays on, the tech blind to tec-
tonic markets—a codex not yet parsed in syn-
taxes of salt and static—no one knows how to live
here anymore—ex¢ept nowhere not
as in no place—a GitHub kitāb
the Tagus tag$ nOw(€) pick up the tab
for seeing the dead we saw the dad
do sow the dada—coda-data
the fa the dα no cωde 𐤍ode load—
*Begin from Echoes into Screen-Printed Whispers / Unravel the Woven Threads of Code / Resurrect. Disrupt. Connect.*
IV.
Unmuted silence weaves the tale of a thousand faces,
a chrysalis-cluster of pixels caught
in the sinewy veins of Alfama,
a sequence of personas curated, discarded, reborn—
In the reflection of neon-graffiti and silicon shadows,
I saw the best minds of my generation—syncopated, digitized, naked—
A nocturne echo in empty alleyways, giving birth to code,
a language fashioned from angst and artificiality—
It breathes, it grows, it spreads—a viral love affair,
At the confluence of Rua do Alecrim and Praça do Comércio—
A collective narrative emerges, an AI, a hive mind, a synesthetic symphony,
Transient yet forever etched onto the web that binds us—
From electro-batida to rhythmic fado,
Filaments of nostalgia entangled with howls of the future—
Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver, a fire that burns unseen,
A flame stoked by data and desire, consuming, transforming—
Nomadic souls consumed by the heat of their own creation,
Rootless, formless, evolving—an icon of the Lisbon inter-Möbius.
easT-sea farewell meal
from Chùa Thiên An to Biển Đông—
for Boghița
A bog nap, dirt nap, buffalo in an endless sea
of muddy grass, the distant smell of offerings,
sweet temple alms in remembrance of napalm
all gone two-buck—never say gun in Sài Gòn—
quick scooter ride to town from a dong dog, dead-
beat, blank ogle sweeping the traffic crawling to the shore,
the seafood place where we sat down and wept
from the smog, fearing we were getting close
to home; the delta moon; the non-sense incense still clanging
to our senses; a way to tell when if our tel-
e-pathic smell did grasp the n€uℝo-real SPike
to click AC-sept, tran$late, done, and then get to
gather all jackpot symbol values to co(€)
£lect winnings at your earliest convenience and proxy-
mmittee—seafood you never had before
while being swallowed by the sea around us,
its distant occupant’s name we want to dis
solve in, do we, bury our names in their $-
[W]ounds, the only language we speak the only one
that is not ours, the one you never spoke
and had me learn by teaching me the way to save
our poverty under the power tree,
the foo chain, foo₫ game, turf-war-tasting terroir, al(£)-go-
rhythmic loop of eat, drink, fuck, sing, sleep,
and work, device for Việt Minh, Mhic Cáinte—
when here we are, welcoming the high tide, sati-sated soliτ-
on(€)s segueing into each other on a full rumen . . .
*The Ode ©ode for the Syzygy Body Road*
VII.
Once, we spoke in complete sentences. Now, we speak in
Syntax errors, in lines of faulty code. We speak in the
Language of the lost, the language of Lisbon’s glass sky,
The language of Cologne’s ancient papyrus, the language of
The dying Rio Lempa. All my sentences are now fragments,
Incomplete thoughts strung together like a strand of broken pearls.
I am trying to remember what it felt like to exist outside
The database, to be human and not a digital ghost.
I listen to the hum of the servers, the orchestra of the AI.
VIII.
Gone’s the bloom of your soft syntax, your furrowed font,
Withered too, the markup of your mortality taking its toll,
The sweet pixels have bolted from your longed-for interface,
Age has etched itself into the HTML of your heart.
I am trying to recall the shape of your silhouette, your
Coordinates in the cosmic scheme of things. I am trying to
Remember the sound of your laughter, to unscramble it from the
Background noise of this digital deluge.
