More Butterflies Yet

This is my second post about butterflies.
See my first post on the topic (titled simply "Butterflies") here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/07/blog-post_28.html


First picture (as promised in my post about entropy): "Entropy Of A Butterfly". Second picture: "Gumball World". Middle picture: "Someday". Fourth picture: "Opaque Fragility". Last picture: "Vision Of Essence".






Butterfly With Infinite Wings
--------------------------------

A butterfly with infinite wings, with a
Thousand proboscises, with a billion eyes -- it
Dares to fly, dares to rest upon the stagnant cusp,
Upon its very thirst where it is vaguely poised.
So, it resonates in hues of yellow, of purple.
It echoes in the tints of fuchsia and blue. Yes,
It is but imprecise in its magic. But then,
Then it needs not its spells; for, it is
Diffused and yet contained. And thus, it
Wakes to sleep, wakes to tilt the sky upwards.
And it launches itself so as to be beneath us.
It flies, stirring the arid rain, stirring
The gaping wind, stuttering inside its occlusion.
For, its infinite wings are denied their metaphor.
They are denied their triumph. But they are
Enduring; they are also spectacularly afloat.

..............

Aloft And Distant
-------------------

Above these dreams, aloft and distant, is
A butterfly of magic and pondered colors.
And this insect's wings are fulfilled; for,
They descend and ascend inside their verticality.
Those wings are both round and imprecise.
And in their imprecision they obtain such
Thickness and dimension. Yet they are
Indescribable. Yet they are magnificent;
For, they are fuchsia and yellow and blue.
But assumptions seen within me resent this beauty,
Although I too am dichotomous and symmetrical.
I too fly in dreams made enduring. But
The butterfly is never proud of its levitation.
Its electric images are its metamorphosis.
Its allegories are its very amusement, are
Its embodiment as the flower it resembles.

===========

Nexus Of Our Symmetric Imbalance
------------------------------------

Intersecting such perpendicularity, the spaces extend
Upwards and horizontally into their nonconformity,
Into their foreshortening not explainable, oh. Yes,
Upon the nexus of our symmetric imbalance,
The coils remain jagged, and the angles are
Devoid of this broth of thought. Intersecting
The equilibrium of butterflies, of bowties and epitome,
There our gambits divine truest fruition.
There the topology curls into that diameter.
And we ignore those shapes. For, they are us.
They are the emergence of pompous imbeciles.
And, surely, we derive from the scene
A malicious interpretation. Then we crumple
This origami in our fanged fists. Then
We laugh, because we are amorphous. We
Are human monsters drawn among the spirals, drawn
Among the labyrinths we attempt to circumscribe.

***************

Butterfly Blood
-------------------

Butterfly blood, yet it stirs, yet it beckons
Unto the shattered mandala. Butterfly blood,
It transforms from caterpillars of magnitude into
Such resurrection. Dripping, dripping onto my
Allure. Dripping, it drips again onto the floor.
Butterfly blood, tell me of its beginning.
Sleeping until the dream shimmers and rises
Towards the night. Rising, it is evaporating
Quietly. Butterfly blood, tell me of our truth.
Butterfly blood, it is told amongst continuation,
Continuing to evoke enlightenment. Glowing,
Glowing, it transforms. Dripping, dripping as
Our sadness. Butterfly blood, it turns clear,
Remaking itself into this conclusion. See us,
See us fly. Fly. Butterfly blood, see the riddles
Tell us why. Bye.

+++++++++

My Cocoon
---------------

My inspiration has died and become cold.
But I seek still the release of the bonds
Which constrain me as a butterfly, a butterfly
Held tightly within its cocoon just prior
To its emergence, the release of all
Human divinity, the spectacular escape
Unto a world otherwise gray and dark.
For this insect is iridescent and irradiant.
And it has achieved its fantastic longing.

But now (and possibly always, it seems)
I am encased deeply within my vapid
And paranoid imagination, my cocoon.
For I may indeed die here, never
To realize my grandiose possibilities.
Yes, I am snug. Yes, I am embraced.
But that embrace belongs only to my prison.
For no love finds me nor is searching
For my saddened soul. I am contained
Here and always within this eternal
And vacuous trance, this illusion that
I might someday express my wings
Upon this world which awaits them,
And finally fly free, beautifully,
Yet content in my inevitable loneliness.

oooooooooo

Meaningless Butterflies
-----------------------------

Into the flight of bizarre butterflies
Is the collapse within circumferences, is
The abandonment of design, of this shell,
Is the veil of fire, is what is beheld:
Every fleck of odd snow, every atom alone;
Is the forgiveness dripping off our chins,
Is light and crystal shunning our nihilism,
Shunning the meaningless butterflies,
Shunning
The meaningless sparks falling through the center
Of what is only that madness which remains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Butterflies Circled
---------------------------

I would still write of butterflies circled
By each sky
Of viscous and vicious uncertainty.
I would still speak of rain destroying
The idea of wretched thirst
Not quenched but before longing.
I would still dream
Of my travels through passageways,
Through windows seen then known
Then again understood.
And again, I would still write
Of the butterflies bright, aglow,
And multi-hued,
And solidly their essences
And too unreal but ever so
Only contemplated.

"""""""""""""""

(Here is a poem related to the center picture above.)

Someday
-----------

I will someday draw butterflies
Constructed completed out of circles,
As some ancient geometric proof
Which may have only seemed to trisect
Angles, yet instead just barely doubled
The area of the square placed
On the edge of my mind’s concrete floor.

I will someday find inspiration
In beauty never understood, in ugliness
Known only for its beauty, in emptiness
Known just because it represents everything.

I will someday find that passageway
Which leads to my awakening, to
The maze becoming flat no more,
To all the colors I have told you
About so many times prior, told you
That I swore I saw them glowing
On the wings of butterflies made
Entirely out of circles, circles somehow shaped
Into whatever I have wanted them to be.

,,,,,,,,,,,

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Games Inexactly Metaphorical

The theme for today: Games (Abstract games played with a piece of paper and a pencil or two, mostly.)

Picture: "Prayerless Game". (I can't remember if I meant to call this picture "PLAYERLESS Game" instead, or if I was just being weird.)



(I just wrote this first poem today.)

Wonder Without Interconnection
---------------------------------

So as to ask us to be precise and trisected, ah,
I inflated, as did we, the circumspect cubes with
Their own actuality of substance. We alternated,
Placing our opponent's timidity within our mesh.
For, then, then the haphazardness overwhelmed us.
Then I drew straight dimensionless lines throughout
From perimeter to perimeter. I drew the angles
Tilted but not pivoting; yet they thrust themselves
Between the squares. *0*0*0* And we contemplated
This game's lack of water or mechanism.
We contained the rotation of our dreams
Within a column and a row both obtuse.
And then I crossed our previous edges, and
I became faulty, but so did we. Oh, we rose
To cast ourselves among these ruptures
Of wonder without interconnection, of
Distress without constituent, without stability.

===========

Unintentional Cards
--------------------

Unintentional cards were taken from their symmetry.
Each black and each white shard was placed
Upon this tabletop. I tasted the subdivision of
Such arrangement. For, I hid within the images
Of palindromes imagined. And she gazed onto
A preconceived line. She stared onto a row once
A column. And she detected among it
The circles of balance. And I, I found in her
The very same tableaux. In her permutation
I saw my own impossibility. Ah, she counted
The theorems I had remade. And then, then
I succumbed to her transliteration. I succumbed
To the game I had betrayed. She was
Oppressed by my dichotomy, yes. But I too
Enumerated unintentional cards. I too was clever.

++++++++

Vertices Non-Adjacent
------------------------

Imagined is the intermediate maze, a game
Made from numbers and aesthetic sleep.
Imagined is every dream of beauty's knife.
Imagined are the crumbs underneath this grid.
And I imagined the diagonal lines. They
Connected vertices to non-adjacent vertices.
Ah, I imagined the penciled polygons, these
Sections carved from squares. And I drew this
Derivation emerging, drew the protractor
Once a straightedge. And I imagined such
Fluid and salt converging upon the tapestry.
And there we partake in the conflict,
Partake in our own thoughts now imagining.
There we scribe the subtle intricacies
Onto paper plaid and blank. Then again these
Imagined rotations are abstract; they are
Bent into our finalities enumerated, into
Our visions each devoid of interpretation.

..................

Without Any Dream Of Dimension
---------------------------------

Etched into chaotic grids, the concave point
Curved beneath the vastness beyond it. Ah, this
Trajectory within us, it became strange; but
Yet it contained its very continuation.
Yes, integers against integers transformed it.
Then every atom of the paper page crumpled.
And that vertex condensed into its triteness.

For, I partake in the actuality of such
Mathematics. And I suppose that numbers
Divide into my calculation. But when I am
Demeaned by the grid -- a game invoked -- I
Become my own distress. I become again
But an uncertain dot; For, I am without
Any dream of dimension. I am without any
Superimposed blur perplexingly counterintuitive.

*************

Invisible Game
---------------

Upward, rightward, downward, upward again -- drawn is
This invisible game. For, it too is symmetric. It too
Is coiled into angles and lines, into arcs and
Polygons defined by their edgelessness. For, intersecting
Are the topologies never combined, never intersecting.
Indecisive are the grids of mismatched bifurcation,
Are the curving diameters of triangles subdivided.

So, into the maze, there the pencil scribes, tearing
At the perpendicularity of our strategies torn.
And we erase the retrograde distances we ignore.
But soon the square implodes, becoming the void
Underneath which we scrawl, scrawl both images and
Imagination upon such an aesthetic, upon
Such an invisible game forlorn, made into its
Nonexistence, into its inspiration
Of iridescent dimensions concocted.

##############

Dots Upon The Maze
--------------------

Precisely, this was not what it almost was,
A triangle barely actual. And yet we placed
The dots upon the maze. We did, as I recall,
So as to honor the squares, the triangles
Each not quite. For, at intersections undisturbed
Were these nonconformist vertices made. Yet they
Never concealed such thoughts. Then, finally,
The lines were drawn, upward and horizontally,
Then rightward and vertically. Still, I came to be
Vain, came to be impressed. Oh, in this completion
I saw triangles and triangles not exact, saw
Quadrilaterals and pentagons and maybe nothing more.
We counted the edges, counted the polygons,
Enumerated the depictions of enumeration.
But somehow the game was incomprehensible;
Somehow the wonder we imply was spitefully resolved.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Inexactly Drawn
-----------------

Drawn are the spheres each equal to my iris;
Drawn are these shadows upon the string,
Upon enlightenment and light. Drawn is again
The image of images; is the vision of metaphors.
Drawn is the glass, is the spark, is the water
Dripping into oblivion, into such categories
Of moisture.
And I drew the perpendicularly acute diagonals
Within the point itself within the vertex. And
I transformed curvature into seclusion, transformed
Scrawl redeemed into such formulae unmade.
And I drew the circle without center, drew it
Inside its own reciprocals and synapses, drew
The games' pronouncements onto dimensions
All elevated and lateral, all benign in their
Interpretations sketched intriguingly,
But inexactly drawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Those Numbers Dreamt
-------------------------

Inaccurately I dispel the ink, placing it anew
Within each square that I count, that I contain.
Subdivided are the rows and columns into a
Ponderous mesh. For, I stare upon these finitudes.
And I strain to differ in such elongation, in such
Amplitudes. Oh, intermittent are the lines, these
Topologies of vertical versus horizontal.
Yet they coalesce about their zeroness. They
Clump about their bifurcation. Yes, the
Pencil and pen and paint subside, only to remain
In their flatness. Finally, we think of those
Numbers dreamt. Finally, it is determined
Which player of the game has transcended our
Conformity; it is determined what our boredom has
Resolved, has placed in balance among our lack
Of formulation.

oooooooooooo

This Game Of Forever
------------------------

This game of forever, it desires its depth,
It is determined to distract us from
The nebula of unpronounceable photons.
Do these remnants of slender glass
Defy the annuli drawn as if foreshortened?

Augmented it is by sultry light traced upon
The haphazard intersections of lines
And their incarnations, traced upon
Insipidness, upon drops of shattered space;
It is by coincidence denied but ever elusive,
But ever devoid of any astringent anagram
Except that which is our adjective,
Which is a game both miniscule and large,
Both convex and hidden within
The thickness of points randomly stale.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

This Game Of Edges
-------------------------

I understood, misunderstood, the similarity,
Knew that I had forgotten
That that is surrounded within such insignificance,
That was this game of edges.

Surrounded by, within, such color and number,
We prayed, we played, upon the clock,
Upon the chessboard disordered
And now shattering.

I understood this simplicity
To never equate equality
With analogy with matter
Or with pattern or images of image.

For images of images of games of the edges,
These, as is forgotten and explained,
These are but made from adjacency, from loneliness,
Despite the definitions of finality, of emptiest assumptions

As to what is the text of the rules
Of a game misshapen and mistook.

//////////



See the games that inspired these poems at:
http://gamesconceived.blogspot.com/

Entropy Becoming Misshapen

Today's theme: Entropy. (Since my last post to this blog was about inertia, I thought I would follow that post with a post about my other favorite physics concept.)

First picture: Entropy Of Convex Thought". Middle picture: "Enraged Entropy". Last picture: "Entropy Spilled Haphazardly".
(Note: I also have another picture, "Entropy Of A Butterfly", I wanted to share with you. But I will wait until I do a second post about butterflies to publish that picture.)





Depictions Of Megaphones
--------------------------

Oh,
Scream
Into The
Imagined air!
Outwardly, the breathful voice was expressed
Via and upon and within such coiled paper soothed.
Throughout the cone of curvature, I exploded
From point to pinnacle. Transposed, transformed,
The inert quanta became equilibrium and
Magic reshaped. Yet droplets fell onto these lips.
And ripples described the boundaries of fixation.

Oh, what are the intentions of entropy? For,
In our purpose is spoken those mathematics;
In our purpose are
Spoken the formulae and tableaux always intricate.

Spoken are the depictions of megaphones.
Oh, in their reverberation is our convexity.
In their resonance is our laughter,
Our laughter conceited in its pronunciation.

=======

The Convex Point Exposed
--------------------------

Indicative is the exception, a cusp among a line.
This edge is otherwise straight and conforming.
Yet there is but one dream expressed by
The polygon of single dimension. Oh, upon the
Inexact middle of the perimeter of all, there,
There is the epitome of entropy; there, there is
The convex point exposed.

And around this bulge, surrounding this prong,
An ellipsoid loop is bound by that
Which is within it. This curve mimics somehow
The distress of the line. But yet
It is enclosed, as are we, by its own
Meanderings. Oh, the line and the loop,
They intersect, but they are mutually distant.
And I wonder why I concern myself
With their strange choreography. I wonder
Why we too are as they, superficial
And actual in our protruding intentions.


++++++++++


Seen Upon A Concave Sphere
------------------------------

Seen upon a concave sphere is this bluest yellow,
Is this greenest magenta seen -- seen within
That dawn rotating is the placid sand we
Endure, we enclose in among our salvation.
Seen in delicate octahedra is such a crumb,
Is my own dreaming shell. And is the mind
Its madness; is the soul its own psychotic pangs?

Oh, seen in indecent ghosts explained, seen is
The thrice duplication of sparks proclaimed.
And known, known is the antagonism of this
Sultry amoeba that is our humanity. For we
See the circularity of entropy's riddles, see
The exploitation of sight yet voluminously
And cursively stricken.

..............

So As To Endure
-----------------

We once extracted the shudder from its cusp,
Once extracted amorphous metaphor from shape,
From isolation and beauty. And, ha, we once sought
That thoughtlessness coerced by our own dreams, once
Sought the awkwardness we embrace despite its
Existence misunderstood. Youth too enrages us; for
We shun the entropy of our aging resentment.
Because I shall somehow extract the night's embers
From day's static clouds, from dawn's strangeness.
For I shall somehow rejuvenate my contemplation
So as to embarrass such shivering substance, so as
To endure the savagery of our adulthood, so as to
Endure the fermenting skin we have forgiven.
Yet we haphazardly abstain from this convalescence.

ooooooooooo


Of Meaninglessness Haphazardly Incarnated
-------------------------------------------------

Such scrawl refuses to engulf my imagination, refuses
To reveal its origins. Such tangled conjecture
Expresses its dreams as simply afloat within
The drowning perfection coveted by truth,
Coveted by sanity reassured. Drawn is this
Summation divided, is this pivot of similarity.
Drawn is the withered imprecision, is that
Entropy devoted to its definition. And
We contemplate these magnitudes entwined
With their geometry. We contemplate such
Scrawl -- for it whispers the nonsense
Of mediocre riddles. For it wonders too
Regarding these assertions, regarding these aspects
Of meaninglessness haphazardly incarnated.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

And Of Entropy
--------------------

The chaos imagined
By perfect order, it
Is this which it surrounds

:Entropy, so much has such
Imploded
As crumpled webs from
Spiders un-aglow, from silken lines
Created of only shadows.

: And of entropy,
Solely truth is apathetic
To this its own uncertainty,
Of perfect chaos, of imagined order
--Derived are these ironic integers each,
Each its confusion within,
Within the tangle of what is simplistic,
Of what is obvious.

*************

Entropy
-----------

My soul desires (for I am insane)
Entropy.

Ah, entropy is this inevitability to static,
To the randomness in which we would envision
Perfect order; yet
We are told we are and only I
Am mad, despite every Rorschach-test,
Despite every pundit's opining
And unprovable conjectures regarding
The divisibilities epitomized
By summations,
Despite conjectures of imaginary sight,
Of descent consistent unto ...
Unto an unstraight asymptote.

Ah, entropy is the misarrangement
Of the entirety of permutations

(Themselves each unjustified
{If not as simplest games});

It is dissolution and disillusionment
And distraction and beauty
Transformed (as death is beheld)
Into its very resentment.
And within, neither souls
Nor heaven
May attain anything so loved,
Anything so insanely desired,
But,
But perfection ....
Uncertain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Into Entropy Itself Dissolving
------------------------------------

In an attempt to erase that single letter
At the beginning of the paragraph, but
At the end of some single sentence,
I scratched
At it with my claws, my talons filthy
And bloodied with disturbing imaginings.
And I only smeared every mistake-made
Into an opaque corpse upon the pages
Of reality’s eulogy, an epitaph
In transparent violet, in invisible red.
For such erroneous conception never
Was seen by its own irony ...
And that of this very inscription,
Of this very array of letters and
Punctuation all arranged erratically,
All in a most unbalanced descent
Into entropy itself dissolving.

""""""""""

Leroy Quet

Inert

Today's theme: Inertia.

First picture: "Inert Metaphor". Second picture: "Dominion Of The Inert". Last picture: "Inertia Perceived".




Each of the poems today is several years old.

If Only Barely
------------------

If only barely,
I am alone, I am this which is
The writer of concise rambles
Well-composed and psychotic and trite.

I am inert
And callous and searching,
Searching for a world in which,
In which it is never a necessity
To erase the edges.

And this searched-for world, it is aflame,
It is brilliantly a halo absorbing
Itself into fire's heat;
And then it rests until,
Until the eclipse of sky and ground
Contain and then converge,
If only, if only barely...

Barely my heart is beating,
And unpredictably so, it is,
Is nothing otherwise
But alone.

+++++++

The Hyperbola Devoid Of Asymptotes
------------------------------------

I was confused by that triangular crescent.
And I knew it has always been meaningless.
I knew that squares were subtly tilted so
As to be trapezoids each withering and
Yet aesthetic. I was confused, surely, by
The hyperbola devoid of asymptotes. Thus,
I beheld such shapes of my inarticulation,
And I remade them via the chaos within,
Within my hand and mind alike. Oh,
I licked the lemniscates. And it hid.
It rotated until its duplication, until
All the cusps had bifurcated. In this inertia
I am an image self-intersecting; in this
Triangle curved into a crescent, I am provoked,
I am formed into an amorphous blur
By my ridiculous inexactness.

=======

Inert Is The Riddle
------------------------

Inert is time's ambiguous expression, is this
Redemption of impure diagonality. I forgot
Such imaginings tritely devout. I forgot
Those prayers surreal in their truncation.
And that thirst counters its hunger, the
Starvation which too is the dripping enumeration
We convey. Oh, inert is the riddle that descends
Unto Its purpose,
Its purpose as our salve for the strangeness
We subject to our constriction, to our madness.
Inert is the circle within us, within each
Polygon of rotation, within that deformed saliva.
For tilted too are those inconsistencies we deny.

..............

Spectacular Inertia
--------------------------

Spectacular inertia mends its timid whispers,
Transforming purity into perfection into
Empty and cosmic despair, into the lens
From where imagination becomes ourselves,
Becomes what is oblique yet blurred.
Oh, spectrums incarnate divide amongst this
Abstract abacus of punctured simultaneousness,
Divide among the atoms of refraction alluring.
And these putrid slices of amazement, they
Quell the superposition of madness, of
Artificial perception still perceived,
Still without shape or any other measurement.

*************

Becoming The Inertia
-------------------------

I become my inertia, become the subtle carcass
Of my remembered future, of our hungry and
Forgotten minds. I placate this spit,
Plagiarize this composition of cacophony
And anger. I then recreate the death
Of stillborn night, of daylight ascertained
To once be pure, to once be impenetrable
And reassuring. And I retaliate against
Those inflections. I then reject only this
Which is illegible, which is unread because
Of its obscene reverberation among what
Is our simplest droplet of misunderstanding,
Is of such wine tasting of entropy --
For it too is indifferent.

ooooooooooo

Of Dimmest Inertia
------------------------

This, too, is a cobweb spun
And containing none but emptiness.
This is too my everything
Of zero.

Oh,
These which are mazes
Of dimmest inertia,
They are solely myself
Absolute and severed;
There above dreamt sight,
There seen by only night lit
And never again imagined,
I have woken unto a solidity
Silken,
Sticky, entwined, ever
A tangle
Of scribbled worlds and stone
Existing so as to equal its own
Permanency.

''''''''''''''''''

Only
------

Cold and untelling,
Untold and yet yelling,
So were these emptinesses
Each
To be mine alone.

I need to be free
Within my prison;
I need to be real
Within my vision.

I need those spirals to implode;
I need this condemning
(This collapse)
To remain (as rhymes finish),
To be mine ... alone.

Complete and desired only
Were each reality isolated,
Was every world its own,
As I have hoped my spirit
Solid
To be, to be mine:
Mine alone.

Forever, ...such was this
Much too skewed,
Too inert, purposefully never
(And, so therefore) purposeful
(Or rude),
Forever, such were we
Forgetting, and resentfully so,
The angels ..... the anger - -
From any otherness,
From my very own.

{Repeat previous line once},
I need to be hidden,
Separated, unknown.
I, as destined again,
Need to be
Mine, only mine,
Only {repeat 'only' infinitely often} ...
Only ... alone.
*

---

Leroy Quet

The Annulus Encircled

Today's theme: Tori, annuli, rings. (Tori is the plural of Torus, and a torus is the doughnut shape. Annuli is the plural of annulus, which is a ring, sometimes denotes a two-dimensional torus.)

First picture: "Artificial Vastness". Second picture: "Observe". Third picture: "Ring Of Invisible Dawn". Fourth picture: "An Annulus Subsiding". And last picture: "Axis Spilled".






Despite The Torus
-------------------

Despite the torus, among this dichotomy seen
Was all that is displaced by the curl, by
The essence of assumptions made true.
And in this ring was such magnification,
Was sad light and humorous electricity.
Inside the hollow of this annulus was drawn
The flames of metamorphosis, was drawn
The magnetism once thrust through
These wires and coils and pivots spinning.
Oh, thoughts of implosions reoccur simply
As I run and fly upward. And then
The machine contorts truncated time; it
Conjoins the certainty of our reality's
Constituents. And it composes the voices
Of this posture, composes the subtext
Of exactness without edges, without
Any beheld representation.


=========

Entropy Withers
----------------

Half torn, fully crushed, this purity of space-time
Engulfs us anew. Seemingly we spill the protrusions
Back against the delicate floor.
Entropy withers; it reiterates its dire task.
Empathy whispers; and then we flee the dream.
And then we flee the containment of truth.
Oh, we flutter in our sad frustration. But
We exaggerate our jaggedness, for it is stained.
And we tear the hollowness and become it.
We rip the tangles from these atoms and quarks.
And we ascend into the annulus within us.
We hoist our begging brains through this
Pit inside our imagination. And, furthermore, we
Extract from our longing the patterns and enigmas.
Then we pass, until all is behind us, until
Our water is fluid, until it is again tilted
By its own passive suggestion.


++++++++++++

Tapered Spinning
-------------------

Such perspective is contained inside
Its distant center, within again its edge --
Its edge: The thickening and evolving point
Of equilateral appendages, of subdivided
And intersected radii formed from their beginning,
Formed from the very middle of this turning,
Of this constancy invoked then hidden.
And that image is collapsing into the coarseness
Which surrounds a bisected and vanishing annulus.
That parable is shrinking into the heights
Of our suppositions, is shrinking from
This origin of sacrosanct perpendicularism,
From the tapered spinning of that repetition,
Of this recollection captive within its expression.


...........

Those Annuli Elongated
---------------------------

Perpendicular, beautiful, invisible, obscured; oh,
Each edifice of envisioned dawn, it achieves
Its expansion despite the minutia equal to its blood.
Such encloses the seed within that glass, within
The vials of circles and refraction. Oh, each
Molecule of angry light, it is the spiral inside,
Inside where I have endured, where I have erased
The cursive perspectives of our lapse. Yet, yet
Perpendicular is the flower; for it tilts imperfectly.
Beautiful is the contemplated rain; for it forgets.
Invisible is the sky, because it is our observation.
And obscured, obscured is the dream by itself --
Yes, it has surrendered the shredded scrawl
To those ceasing sparks of innocence, to precisely
Those annuli elongated but perplexingly undefined.


~~~~~~~~~~~

The Rings Transposed
-----------------------

The rings transposed -- from white to black,
Left to right -- black to white, right to left.
Oh, unchanged is the image within its position.
Unchanged is absolution and abstraction. Ha.
I am hideous beauty. I am the changer
Of such rings, perhaps. Perhaps I am the other,
I am the other perception remaining.
Perhaps I am the transparence of these
Annuli. For in their desires I am
Observed -- I am the divisive rotation made
From left wrongly right, from right
Incorrectly left, from the inexact appearances
Of this inversion, of this enlightenment dim
But always as strange as
Any of these forgotten crescendos.

ooooooooooo

The Semicircle Evokes
-----------------------

Compressed and stained, the crescent passing
Through the ring is our evolution, is its
Own meandering expression. Against the inside
Of this torus, the concave embodiment
Turns and reiterates its flatness. Yet it is
Plush and voluminous. It is the prong,
Is the plaid, is the ascendance within itself.

Oh, compressed and stagnant, the semicircle
Evokes its scribbled asymmetry, evokes its
Amorphous truth now obvious, now implied.
And nothing is determined or ascertained via
This tableau. Although reality imagines
It to be halved; but I imagine it to be
Trisected. But we imagine it to be absolute
In its entirety, in its worthiness devoid
Of any antecedent.

**********

Three-Fourths
---------------

Three-fourths a ring without center, without
Any hole but the single point in amongst me --
I look upon such a torus. And in it is
The arc of triangular cosmos, is the coil
Of concurrent shape. And I cling to this
Dichotomy of unpredictable darkness. For it
Is erect, rising from the tableau. It is
And incomplete, yet beautiful, circle, is but an
Ellipse compressed and punctured. Oh, I am
Obsessed with the images of symmetry and,
Therefore, of asymmetry. I am as opaque as
All reality. And I touch the substance; I am
Touched by these sharp cusps. Ah, I am
Enumerated, as are all perplexing assumptions.
And I formulate my dreams from three-fourths
Of this concentric truth yet specious but
Restlessly sculpted and then, afterwards, conceived.

##############

Edges Of The Torus
-------------------------

I saw every irrational number expressed
In terms of itself, each finding an unexpected
Purpose, an unreal implication, within
The lattice, the grid containing all
Colors, yet somehow none still.
And none, nothing is the thoughts’ motivation,
Not a fragment of any state of this
Computer, this mind we have come to
Know, nothing at all finally explores
The edges of the torus, the vertexes
Of the knot intertwined with every
Abstraction, every simple design
Representing the entire vacuum.
And my awareness gasps for knowledge,
Fears the suffocation of ignorance.
So I gaze at the focal-point in hopes
That all reciprocals summed would
Still ironically find their finite limit,
In hopes that all integers are ultimately
Equal to one, equal to zero finding
Its once-hidden substance.

""""""""""""""""""

Drawing Rings
------------------

I draw the rings around us,
I take my dream and surround us.
I understand the photons only,
I have been rendered so lonely.

I ask the questions invisible,
I ask the riddles unseen,
I speak the colors encircled,
I speak of madness quite mean.

You come to me and then hide,
You move through doors inside.
You ever make your own sight,
You always take dimmest night.

You draw the rings around us,
You once saw the images in glass,
You might somehow gaze inward,
But your world, your stars, now they pass,
...Oh, they always indeed do pass.


---

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Within The Yolk, Beyond The Shell

Theme: Eggs.

First picture: "The Shape Of Meaning". (You may recall that I already posted this picture. Actually, it was one of the first two pictures I posted on this blog.) Second picture: "Egg And Peacock Feather". Middle picture: "Prophecies Of Assumption". Fourth picture: "Portrayed As An Egg". And the last picture: "Poignant Resonance".







As An Egg
----------

Portrayed as an egg, betrayed as its skin,
The tapered spheroid arrived at such spite.
And from its shell, the long and slender
And flat prong turned then rose horizontally.
Ah, I saw this egg withhold its yolk. For,
In its white was our own humanity. In
Its fluid was the lonely truth now meaningful.
And I awoke to see beyond this ellipse
A curvilinear crescent conjoined with
Yet another. And this dichotomous quasi-ring
Transformed itself via its own triumph as
But an annulus. Oh, the egg, it was thirsty.
It was soothed by its shape. And I too
Am fragile yet not angry. But still I scream.
Still I dare to seize the simple egg,
And then place it abruptly behind
Its obviously pompous and brittle shroud.

+++++++++++

The Egg Pretended
--------------------

The egg pretended to envelope itself in its
Pretension. And it pretended to redeem itself
In consequence and trite shadows. For it
Contained a white of imbalance and purity.
Yet, such was selfish, if it too was bland.
It contained a yolk of its own ghost. And
In this yellow syrup of implication, it saw
The shapelessness of perfect substance. And
Surrounding that dichotomy of white and yolk
Was the frail skin of soft solidity, the shell.
And such a coarse glass of calcium carbonate
Faltered. Then it shuddered, then split, forming
The lines askew of random firmament. This bone,
This ellipsoid, it cracked. And forth came our
Longing and chasm. Forth came our betrayal
Never to be remade. For the young bird
Is to die. And the flesh of this zoological seed
Excretes until we provoke its timidity. And we
Pretend that we did not shatter that egg.
We pretend that it is meaningless to our
Dream, pretend that it was meaningless to
Our decay overwhelmed by such circumvention.


==========

An Ellipsoid Subtly Tapering
-----------------------------

The egg extends to become its flatness. Yes,
Its yolk is eviscerated by this image of truth.
Could I taste the ghost within me? For it too
Is spherical. It too is glistening. Oh, wet is that
Yellow purity, is the symbolism we remake. Oh,
I smash that meaningless stone, then transfuse
Those liquid assumptions into my convalescence.

The egg, it is certain of its flavor, of its shape.
And such mutations of specks inflame our perversion.
Such profound and dismal curvature,
It is my undenied blood. It is that substance
Resting sideways. It is both diagonal and vague
In its concentricity. For jagged are the crumbs of
Reality's androgynous ellipsoid subtly tapering.

..............

Inside The Shell Of The Egg
-----------------------------

I scream at the spectacle above this firmament.
For there, afloat, is an egg inside where
All is glass, all is amorphous, all is beautiful
And yet smooth. And I see in it the bending light.
Ah, but yet the ellipsoid is a strange prism.
For it refracts my emotions and thoughts, as
It begets color. For it illuminates hope into
Such an infusion of resilient existence. It
Hallucinates the sky -- Yet I observe the fragility
Of that cosmos. Oh, I scream at the lens. And
Then I am angry; then I am guilty of my failings.
Then I am distraught and apathetic. Because
Inside the shell of the egg is my confusion.
Because I do not understand my horror,
Nor do I explain it profoundly
When I scream, when I am selfishly enclosed.

***************

The Egg Denied
-------------------

The egg denied its conceit, denied its shattering
Into triplicate. This water obtained its drips
From that shell unto the ambiguous floor.
The egg imploded so as to exhale yet again.
And that thirst distracted our shape; it
Felt the sounds of tingling filth, of throbbing
Incontinence remaining sickened. The egg
Dreamt of its divergence, dreams still of what
Has impregnated the rapture which strangulates
These implied edges. And this yolk remains
Septic and yet finite, remains timid but
Yet alluring. And then the fluid falls
Until it too becomes the dark rust we invoke.


~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Egg Cracked
---------------------

The egg cracked,
Ending our youth forever, destroying all
We once hoped to be, but now,
But now we may only lament.
And we have always mourned the loss
Of that which would have passed out of
Our possibility, yet stood strong until
The wave-function collapsed.
We have always sung quietly to ourselves
Our own funeral dirge ... quietly
Whispered our own epitaph.

The egg cracked, shattered,
Spilled its guts upon the floor,
That floor tiled with pain.
The scar of our passage becomes
A most grotesque yolk staining
Any of our hopes for what exactly
We may only have achieved but for
The fragility of a shell which
Was suppose to protect us from
Our own bias and uncertainty and
Fear of ourselves.

The egg cracked, became disordered,
Yielded to entropy and fate.
And still we never stop believing,
No matter how disheveled our world,
That we have anything to imagine,
Any more than we can only now
Perceive beyond the surface, the horizon,
Of our once-eternal sanctuary, now
Just our discredited and misshapen superstition.

ooooooooooooooo

Within The Shell
--------------------

Such desires are for thought eggs
With unthinking shells,
Shells uncracked, but still
Containing within the essence
Of my individuality.
Within that mandala glowing in
Every hue, but especially fuchsia,
Is the butterfly, the knot,
The symbol that represents
All of my complete and total
Expression of self.
Not even here, in this poem,
Is such a secret revealed.
No, these secrets are hidden from
The secrets themselves.
And something that draws the symbol,
The magical incantation upon our souls,
Is rising up and out,
Never to be completely contained
Within the shell.
It rises up and explodes,
Releasing itself finally,
Achieving mortality.

'''''''''''''''''

Leroy Quet

Disgusted And Repulsed

What better topic to post on Thanksgiving -- traditionally the biggest eating day of the year -- that a blog about gross stuff?
(I'll turn you all into vegetarians yet!...)

Only one picture on this topic, thankfully: "Specimen".



Almost An Autopsy
------------------

Arriving upon the near surface of edges,
This savage gore expresses its iridescence.
But I am yet stranger. I am barely touching
The wondrous blood, am barely touching the
Undescribed guts of a misaligned species.
And I too am beautiful. I also am vague.
But I do not quite caress the red amber,
Nor do I become aroused by the stench.
Ah, I attempt to define and identify such
A clump of bilateral imperfection. I
Attempt to deny this tangle. But surely
It is hollow, or is it opaque? Surely
It is curvaceous and delicate. For, it
Falters and dissects its own turbulence,
Cleaving its superstition from its fragility.

========

This Guillotine
-----------------

My thoughts decompose, for they are grotesque. The
Blade of this guillotine sliced forcibly throughout
Our virtuous assumptions of color and photons.
And thus I observe the decapitation. Thus I see
The truncated corpse to be both gory and complex.
Oh, the head of this beast is hidden and still.
But the severed neck rises up to show us
Its disease. From inside this blood I notice
The vertebra and the esophagus, notice
The larynx halved by human sadism.
And delicate is the void now voiceless.
Delicate are the preconditions of death. Yet
I am brought to my own execution also.
For, the queue is minimal, as is life. And
All is mindless due to our pathetic intentions
And mental misshapenness.

++++++++++


Excruciatingly Rotten
--------------------------

For the strawberries are excruciatingly rotten,
Bleeding their smelly pus onto the
Already soiled lace which drapes
Our lives, shrouds my dying soul.

And upon the floor rested the carcass
Of such a beautiful bird, now dissolving
Into a feast for maggots and poetry inspired.

Upon that floor rested my soul draped
In white and stained with the blood of disgust.
And I might be resurrected if I attempt to be.
But perhaps I just will spoil in my anguish,
Begin to fester out of the neglect
I still choke on. And I have become sick.

I have become so very sick indeed. Yes,
I have been poisoned with such sweet
And beautiful, yet malicious, strawberries.

...............

Gory Is The Neon
-----------------

Gory is the neon.
Aglow are the glands, the tumors, the ducts and vessels,
The porous organs, the tainted flesh.
Iridescent are the syrupy fluids that ooze from us.
Fragrant and glistening is the teratological decomposition,
Is the thought mangled by its neurons, by
Its celestial decay. Opaque is the splatter, is
The phlegm of our moist disease. And still,
Still it all is ambivalent and geometric.
Still, the filth that composes our truth, it
Resonates and yet perceives itself to be beautiful.
And in this pus is seen the spectra we have forgotten.
Ah, in the indescribable scum it is known
That this magnificence will metastasize. So we
Suckle the fermentation of our skin as we
Scar the awareness of our indistinct blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Slaughter
--------------

Once, I was but equal to my own self, as I stared
Upon my shimmering life. And then, then I heard
The shouts of whispered evil. Then the monster came
And surprised my shy imagination. Then that beast
Grasped me, tearing into my tender thoughts with
Its horrid claws. And I never before had known
That I could ever understand such intensity,
Such misery, such anger.

Oh, then, as if infinity was simply zeroness, these
Fists and talons pulled at my flesh and its extremities.
And, thus, I grew sick as this devil tugged
And then -- exerting a force far beyond any I
Could have resolved -- it, despite the screams,
Shredded my being, rupturing my soul.

Then, thus, therefore, our viciousness wounded me,
Dissecting my body into an inexact and bloody existence.
Then I became that mangled conflagration, as I
Gazed onto my innards strewn and ghastly.
And then I became rancid. But surely, certainly
My naive dreams dispelled themselves until
Death resorted again to its haphazard euthanasia; for
Now I am shapeless, I am putrid and delicate
In my abbreviation, am delicate in my transmutation into
Yet the miniscule fodder for such carnivores each
Ironically beautiful, strange, and timid,
Each grotesquely asinine.

oooooooooooo

Of Such Concave Dissection
-----------------------------

Semi-symmetric are the lobes adjacent
To the stem, to that prong underneath.
Septic are the thoughts evoked. For in these
Reniform entanglements I remove surreal moisture.
And yet the stench is abstract, is mindful
Of its formaldehyde. Yet I sever this darkness
From blood and pus and peculiar fluids contained.
And, thus, I separate the stratum from rotation,
Separate cartilage from tendons still paranoid.
And I observe that stain and its oil,
Observe that globule secreted by glands elongated
And arched into this structure. I inspect
Perplexing filth encased within uncertainty
And strange shapelessness. Ah, I dare not taste
This meat. For assumed is the beauty of such
Metamorphosis, is the beauty of such concave
Dissection.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''

The Rotten Phlegm Of Ideal Possibility
--------------------------------------------

I delight in the cowardice we once regretted;
But then the tepid blood destroys us. But
Then the strangled thoughts endure us,
Endure their vacant and empty stains. But then
The certainty of uncertainty enveloped me;
It corroded such neurons, such voices aghast.
It became the music we deplore, devour,
Became the vastness we behold
And soon spite if to ravage these prayers
Of Oscillation, if to ravage the subtlety
Of our minds. Then the rotten phlegm
Of ideal possibility, it surely resolved
This multiplicity incarnated as what has
Been beloved, has been peculiar and stale.


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Blister
---------

The protruding blister desired its painfulness.
And into it I stared, finding this
Which is but only curved and flat,
This which makes the viscosity itself fluid.

Oh yes, the blood and purity of what is
Absolute convexity, it dripped
Down inside the self-exploration which returns
To be me. And never again
Do I attempt to lance the blister,
For it is too unreal to concern me.

*************

The Kill
-----------

Almost hidden (so it was)
From our humanity, from
Our bigoted dreams, it rested upon
The dirt, that earthen ground - - for it was
The kill.

And the beasts took it down
In indeterminate pasts, in unremembered
Contemplations; stalked it, attacked it,
Tore it apart.
And it now only bled,
Became nothing more than meat,
Less than the flesh which was once
Its sole epitome.
From every darkness came the vultures,
The lions, the hyenas, those who would
Feast on any opportunity of carrion,
Of satiation, on any possible fulfillment
Of the final lust.

And this gore disgusted no creature
Who wished a taste, no predator,
No scavenger. And it
Did not disgust us, we human beings.
For it was we who committed the slaughter.
It was her, our innocence, our
Once-virgin child,
Who was that which was slain,
Which has found desire,
Found her unexpected ascension.

##############

(Had enough? No? Okay, one more.)

The Sore
-----------

Squirm, you maggots swarming.
Throb and bleed, for your gore is askew,
Is foul as all else
In this wretched conformist human mass.
You are the creeps, the festering stench,
That encompasses all in this
Once eternal sphere.
And such offensive monsters as you
Mate and dance, and scar our world.
And it succumbs.

Humanity oozes from the sore
That it has created,
That it has become.
And we are but a teratological tumor
Upon the heart of virtue and innocence,
The heart of paradise, a paradise now
Made sickly and disgraced
By our insatiable lust,
Our filth, our despicable excuses
For breeding, for existing at all.
No redemption can come to such evil.
For it has vanquished all mercy itself,
Vanquished all mercy for the crimes
Of tolerance and truth once desired.

----

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Petals Evoking Their Magnificence

Flowers is today's theme.

First picture: "Blasphemy Soothed". Second picture: "As A Flower". Third picture: "Astigmatic Cacophony". Fourth picture: "The Stem Drips Upward". Last picture: "Transmutation Of The Epiphany".






Yet The Blossom
-----------------

Cursively entwined and erupting from a stem,
The blossom redeems its parables. Within,
These petals of its rotation, it becomes
Undescribed, becomes luscious and tempted
By its libido of vertices and precognition.

Ah, for, truncated is the fuchsia among it.
Transposed is its imprecision upon reality.
And it explores the cosmos via its amazement.
And it flutters and flies and ascends,
Ascending to the magnificent clouds,
Each assumed to be such thorns. And it sleeps,
It succumbs to human contamination. But
Yet the blossom, the tangled flower, remains
Both vicious and righteous, both iridescent
And bland inside its confinement thirsting,
Inside its air of vague awareness begotten,
Of awareness now upright in that consumption.

==========

Stem
-----

The peculiar stem surrounds itself, returning again
To the flower of its vanity. And it drinks
Its own water. It breathes its own imagination.
And the stem becomes the ring, becomes still,
Becomes iridescent and depicted by those geometries.
Oh, the rain is inverted, as is the blossom.
And the thirst of this plant is eternal.
Its regurgitation is its salve. And it
Hungers for actuality and for dreams alike.
But then it simply sleeps. Then the magic
Envisioned is such parables becomes the juice
That satisfies these suffering petals.
For, then the fluid arrives, made from space-time
And from the nonconformity in which we partake.
Then the flower will proclaim its triumph until
It spites its resentful thoughts, each agape,
Each devoid of genesis or completion.

++++++++++++

Shadow Of A Clangorous Mesh
-----------------------------

The shadow of a clangorous mesh was placed upon
An elliptical ground. And this maze was as plush
And striated as the flowers of misnamed colors,
As the leaves of spectacle and oscillation.
But I heard the flames, and I saw the ambiguity
Hidden inside and beneath this unfolded image. I
Knew that I was to taste the skin of beauty,
Of arousal. Yet I collapsed, as it, into my grasp.
And when I opened my fist so as to raise my fingers
Away from my throat, there was the shadow
Of a clangorous mesh. There was the truth of
Hypocrisy, of the spiral lingering among my soul.
There, within my palm, was sugar and its saltiness,
Was each asymptote evoked by the perversions inherent
In my enlightenment spun clockwise, spinning
Meaninglessly. Oh, seemingly so expressed was
That circumstance, was an extroverted tangle explained.

*******************

The Tulip Soothed
-------------------

Tilted and slender cones rising, floating in emptiness,
They each resolve to be the tulip soothed. And in
Those cups, I envision the transparent pearl, a
Conceited jewel remade. Oh, I deny those thoughts
Of vengeful dust. I instead grasp the flower,
And I taste its magenta. I know I will
Soon perceive its diagonality. But it still
Remains equal to my saliva. It remains
Esoteric but never vain. And it, the image,
Rotates and grows from unseen distance.
Yes, infinite is this stem. But it surely
Contains its own shapelessness. It surely is
Now but the tulip soothed. And I wither
Inside it, as I reach for truth's beckoning,
As I reach for the hallucinated darkness
I have wondrously suffered.


.........................

Again A Flower
-------------------

The universe
Is but a spectacular arrangement
Inspired by such phyllotaxis,
Intrigued by all the reincarnation of all,
By atoms in rotation about rotation --
Because this was as
The universe,
Was its irritation, irradiation, and perfection.

And irritating was this edge
Upon what is perfect,
What is within this that is where
My imagination and its flowering desires
Have still been as this perfume,
This vision of every transparent butterfly,
Each attempting to be seen by the voices
At the centers of a totality
(Of the totality again) of souls.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

The Lily And The Claw
-------------------------

The lily and the claw, both have been damned;
Both hallucinate then exaggerate their wind
So as to reiterate such solemn redaction.
The lily evolves into mentality opaque and
Abstract, becoming the cocoon rather than the
Lepidopteron. And yet it flies. Oh, yet it glistens.
The claw expresses its breath, then rotates,
Then grows dim and pale. And yet it screams.
Yet it stabs at deeper mediocrity. Yes, this
Flower and this knife, they flutter within
Our rectification excreted and extreme. And yet,
Yet they crumble into their vision. Yet
They taste the amber void in which we too
Have arisen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every Blossom Understood
-----------------------------

A flower of spirals made, made again
From crystalline vibration, made
From each fluctuation and its glow
-- This is the recaptured helix, is
What shall be
Eternal in its variation, in its cosmology,
In its victorious night beholding such,
Such sight without dreams, yet still
A night without the salvation of priestesses,
Without redemption among this which remains
Simply instantaneous blood and its viscosity,
Remains to be its own clot dripping otherwise
From sharpened wounds, from the epitome
Returning to every blossom understood.

oooooooooooooooo

An Implication Redeemed
------------------------

Concurrently,
Her unjustified beauty thusly repelled,
But soon grasped at masculinity asserted and at
Femininity sustained. Then she took him,
And swallowed their thirst, recoiling not, yet
Becoming entwined in this causality.

And into the flower the fluid was wrought.

Awakened, that ovum had been superimposed
Upon the tincture of carelessness. And then
It waited; then it laughed, only to subdivide
In its iteration repeatedly beneath
The effeminate flesh she had forgotten.
And virtue metastasized, transforming into that
Which has scribbled shape. And human blood overtook
Its own timidity. And then it became mighty, became
Strange in its familiarity. It was translucent,
Although no one gazed through it. And soon,
In a distant future, it began via its completion.
Soon it uttered the only truth it knew: screaming,
Crying, and surely suffering within
Such a confrontation again.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Eclipses Themselves Obscured

Today's theme: Eclipses (both lunar and solar).

The first picture: "Ironic Eclipse". (I think I already posted this picture a while back.) Second picture: "Seek The Incomplete Eclipse". Third picture: "Distant Eclipse". Last picture: "An Eclipse Of Whispers".





It Is Not
-----------

This engulfed sphere, it does not resemble
A butterfly's wing or a simulation of a
Shattered oxymoron. It does not contain
The fluids of wind and life or love. It
Does not believe in triumph or temper.
And is does never growl. For, the curvature
Of the eclipse, it does not elongate, nor
Does it proclaim it is insane. And it is
Neither purposeful nor pungent. But yet
It is not quite quiet. For, it is not
A constituent of anything, but still it is.
Still it denies it is grotesque, denies
It is conforming, denies it is lumpy.
But somehow it is careless, or is it not?
Or is it transforming via the plagiarism
Of molecules, via its absence, via its
Shapelessness surely shallow?

++++++++++++

My Shadow
-----------

My breath became my shadow. From my teeth, from
My corpse, the string flowed outwardly and into
That monochromatic and blurry silhouette. And
This darkness observed itself within me. And I
Became its translucency. For, my image glows
In its colors, in its shapes. But my shadow, it
Concerns itself with my dead truncation. It
Collapses into its suffocation among the cloth,
Among the magnificent tableaux. It flows through
The wisps of such a dim corona. It hides in its
Eclipse. For it is tempted by my own reverberation.
And I am surely distracted with this optical echo,
With the complicated nihilism I invoke via the light.
Yes, I am grasped by that umbilical, by that wind
Diffracted obtusely.

==========

A New Moon At Midnight
------------------------

A new moon at midnight, seen not by this
Eye above us nor by that which stares upwards
From below our human silt -- It soothes
The sanity we inflict. It stings the vastness
Within our refracted selves. And it perceives
The Earth to be translucent. For we are indeed,
Are surely strangely inert in our beauty, yes.

Ah, and the sun too evades its own shimmer.
But, unlike those lunar arctangents of introverted
Screams, the glow rises swiftly from the smoke
Of time.
Ah, unlike the eclipse yet synonymous with purity,
These starlit days provoke our parables, provoke
Our whispers unpronounced by any such air, provoke
Our whispers uninspired anew by any other amber.


...................

Any Ellipsoid Of Any Darkness
-------------------------------

The ellipsoidal shadow is drawn upon miniscule light.
And in its shade is my indifference, is my forgetfulness,
Is each thought unmade and unpronounced. I behold
What I have held above my brain. And then
I overwhelm the sacred night; for it is dead in its
Magnitudes, in its treason. And, thus, the dawn obscures
That moon without eclipse. And yet I see its blackness
Ascending to its own torment. Thus, the earth transforms
A dim tantrum into such a sky. But I know that
Beyond every hexagon is eternity truncated surely.
Beyond every angry tear is our reality soothed.
Oh, this truth has parted from all humanity.
And it flies past every shadow of any shape,
Past any ellipsoid of any darkness once periodic,
Once afloat in the cosmic shame of our understanding.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Earthen Eclipse
-----------------

And daylight entwined itself with that dawn, with
The world below us, beneath our dim and uncertain aura.
As our earth of our antipode was lit, its entirety
Put us inside its shadow. For here we are yet
Always darker than the dusk, than the collapse
Of sky's fire and curvature's flames. Here we
Suffer from our own death, from the spell of
Vain demons each extraordinary in their falsehood.

Oh, daylight entwined itself with the sea and stone
Of fragrant forgetfulness. And upward it flew,
Downward it abstained, sideways it became
But my own night, it became but my sleep unwoken.
For, in this absurd dream I am
Angry and jagged and enraged; I am gazing
At a sky without stars, at a sun without any
Corona or glow, gazing at the hollowness which
Entices me, which equals our umbra coarsely betrayed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Mind's Eclipse
--------------------

The mind's eclipse darkens its breadth, becoming
This futility and its awkward thoughts. It
Encroaches upon my dream; it is that synopsis
Of hungry epitome extracted from the sand
Of entropy and ghastly randomness. Yes,
It provokes the sleep of nights traversed,
Provokes the daylight to distract ourselves
From the curvature of illumination and
Syzygy. Oh, the eclipse of my spirit, it is
Stranger than what I observe within the
Implosive scribbles each anemic and
Conjoined. For in this tangle I wake, I
Utter the syllables of ugliness and aesthetics.
In this occultation I embrace those tremors,
I reshape the skies' frightening odor so as
To never stare at any moon above such
An earthly crescent superceding.

ooooooooooooo

Above Each Eclipse
---------------------

A solstice dreamt, above each eclipse it is beheld.
Above these dark metaphors it returns the sky again
To a gibbous circle inside where the slender sun
Excludes its crescent crescendo from our fantasies.
For from our sleep is our world reconciled. From
This revolving carousel of tilt and curvature, there
We once grasped the superstitious diagonals drawn,
Once grasped the ellipsoid falling and spinning --
Because we too were vertical. And then, then
The cold solstice woke again our calculation. Because
We are now imprisoned. We are now thrown
And flung farther than ourselves; thus, the
Metronome of our youthfulness becomes its parallax,
Becomes such subdivided reality of human delineation.


*******************

For This Moon Was
--------------------------

Already ...
The points of useless dimension
Were heard carefully and inaccurately
Among the severed and sterile stars,
Among the eclipses of time, of space, of all.
And from these were spawned
Reality and its lover:
Dreams only invisible, sight
Only imagined, only known
Within its chaos and its darkest light.

For this moon was seen again
In incorrect skies; the sun had
Traversed geodesics quite ironic.
But this was not disquieting.
This was not our frightened inspiration.
Because the twisted science within
Each silent mind unknowing
And sleeping, it is the truest
Of unexpected contortions, the
Falsest of mathematics somehow
(In some ways) making sense, making itself
Into every revelation uncontained.

????????????????

My first poem about eclipses, I think:

Eclipse
---------

If the moon passed behind the sun,
Hid from us and our minds,
Then would we finally discover
That we have been foolish in our belief
That we are only dreaming
Just before the dawn, awaking
Precisely as the hue of the light touching
Our bedroom window, changes irreversibly
Just for each of us, but never for any other?


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Numerical

Today's theme is numbers and mathematics.

The first picture is "Even Into Odd". The second picture is "Four Times Five". (Note, the polygons around the edge alternately have 4 sides and 5 sides, and the polygon they surround has 4 times 5 = 20 sides.) The third picture is "More than Twelve". The fourth picture is "Additionally Multiplied". (Don't get this picture's name confused with "Another Addition Multiplied", which was a picture I posted in my blog-post about grids a couple months ago.) And the last picture is "X To The Y".






Around The Quasi-Maze
----------------------

Amongst the scribbled grid, amongst this
Machine of squiggles, we subdivided all
Into its constituents of anything. Around
The quasi-maze, we rotated slightly, we
Turned in our refraction always observed.
And then we engulfed the reciprocals of sums,
The sums of reciprocals. And there upon
This helix, the wisps determined our
Subjective dreams. There, in this reality
We have surrendered, we become flat, and yet
We become precise, if simply theoretical. Ah,
Amongst the convergence of irradiant tableaux,
We trace the exactness of our duplication.
But in this assumption, we have pretended, we
Have imagined certainty and disenchanted sleep
To be awkward, to be sketched inside each
Thought of enumeration purposefully revealing.

==============

Reciprocals Added Then Summed
-------------------------------------

Obsessed are these ample abstractions
With their reciprocals added then summed.
Oblivious to such just dreams, we endure
The tremors of our numerals,
Endure the equations we also pray to.
Observed, this earthen sleep wakes us
So as to show us its calculations.
And we deny the froth its victory,
Deny the physics that have advised us
Of the uncertain linearity, that have
Added then summed the ratios of amplitude,
Of comparisons quite aesthetic yet unproved.

+++++++++++++

Of Every Reciprocal Manmade
-------------------------------------

If I had asked of flamboyant grids,
Of dire hues themselves within us,
Themselves alone among loops acquainting
Each edge with every vertex with
All mazes devoid of solution --
Then
I would have seen those desires
Inside my purest mind, would have
Tumbled and bubbled into a foam
Fading from below this sky, would
Have cut the worlds from voices
Of the ellipses, from unreal plaid
Stirring the sounds among us
Into alchemy and equations
Of every reciprocal manmade.

.....................

Prisms Of Multiplicity
----------------------------

Of controversial indecision; we demand that misplacement.
We put integers into these edges so as to extract
The minimal mazes from such ambiguity. Saturated
With septic squares are the grids of comprehension.
I could have found my spirit wondering if it too
Was precise in its diameters, if it was also its
Intersections within the enigmas we dare desire,
We dare to encounter.
And I ask this question of zeroness, ask if it invokes
The prisms of multiplicity. For riddles collide reassuringly.
For the corners of finitude divulge their shame.
They detach their air from their paper. But yet
The graphite spills itself into un-mended vision,
Into incompletion finally made pastel and dead.

*******************

The Intervals Dividing
----------------------------

The intervals dividing our purpose,
They are made into infinitesimals
Into zeroness as before. And
In the dullness of our shadows
I see inside what seems to have been
But dreamt of walls rising to form
A simple maze, surely. For
Each line drawn within the passages
Is approaching a bizarre asymptote,
Approaching infinitesimals and zeroness
Again as before, as has always been encircled.

ooooooooooooooo

The Theorem Not Made
------------------------------

A quantity assessed, this angle subdivided,
This shaded line ascending, becoming
The theorem not made into any game,
Into any other existence but these,

But of these functions each intervening
And interwoven and containing
Their purpose via their edges,
Via/by the counting of zeros, by
The prism observing its expression
Of the palindrome polygonal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zero And Its Multiples
-------------------------------

I am only a ratio
Of 1's to 0's implied
By their own arrangement,
Am only an integer unmisplaced,
And, consequently, my salvation remains
...Among the simplest emptiness --

And so each void is but this ratio
Of purity inherent in zeroness
And of position insightful and within
Resurrected mystery,
Within, out of, and
Into
These absolute angles
And divisions constructed from
What is
Zero and its multiples.

???????????????

A Simplest Set Of Dimensions
--------------------------------------

The die never did roll those integers
(Whether 5 or 6). Yet never known
Were the bubbles' sizes, somehow similar
And not varying but from
A simplest set of dimensions.
One, two, three, four, again, again;
And then I forget what was written
In bizarre visions of incomplete dice
And of bubbles conforming to themselves.


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

These integers
-----------------

The integers and their orientations
Rose up in benign mutiny;
They became the purity and revolution,
Became of idea and of concept,
And were remade into their image created
Out of themselves and into ourselves.

The integers, they became understanding,
And transformed each into this
Magnificent game, and transformed into
That which is abstraction
And yet is illuminated
And sharp and curved.

The letters composing each atom,
They rebelled,
But remained not
Any less than desired peace,
A peace not hypocritical;

They revolted against
This very enforcing
Which has attempted to place
Pieces and numbers within
An amalgam once devoid of levity.
And conquering themselves,
These integers achieved
Freedom, achieved
Their OWN, but truthful, mathematics.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet