A Smattering Of Whatever

No pictures today. And the poetry follows no pre-determined theme.

I wrote this just yesterday.

The Martyr
-----------

We are ever sacrificed to our own gods of
Minutia and smoke, are sacrificed by the
Amnestic and foolish priests. Oh, I am beheld
Upon the altar made from travesty and beauty.
And the noose surrounds me, for I am the martyr.
I am shapeless in my implications.
Then I fall; then I suffocate and deny my
Sad insanity. Then I too am as those others,
The children of virtue, of purpose truncated.
I am as a prism encased inside us each. For I
Radiate the subtle ambivalence of my death.
I radiate the images of dawn betrayed by
Sight, vision, and thought. I am but afloat
Above the dreams we divine. Oh, I am always
The martyr, am so until I rot, until the sky
Reoccurs beneath me and my celibacy, until
I laugh, because I am distant, I am redeemed
By such inevitability obtained, despite
My own regret, despite my own endurance.

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

I wrote this about a month ago.


This Windmill
---------------

The wheel spun around and away from its
Horizontality. And above it fell the air,
Turning this windmill within such gusts, within
The echoes of elaborate spheres and awkward
Concentricity. And the propeller remained
Among its counterpoint. And it grasped its
Flight; and it concealed its equations. And
It spun, spinning as each neuron's dream,
Spinning as every abstraction of symmetry
Confused. Those blades tore at my thoughts.
And I was grateful. I touched the axis
Of this circle. Then I fell back, back into
The unimagined wind. Then I was flung,
As such gaseous reality, along with those
Turbulent breezes. Oh, I now know the triumph
Of our exploitation, know of the transmutation
Of simple kinetics drawn through the spindle,
Through the clockwise invocation of a mundane assembly.

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

A little older still.

Of Fish Necks And Vertices
---------------------------

An under-lapping spiral coils into its cusp, into
Its death contained deeply inside the hollow veil.
And I too rotate, if carelessly, if carefully
Among the thoughts of fish necks and vertices.
I grasp that spiral; for it stings and slices.
For it grasps me in retribution. But it also is
Scalene. It also is congruent to my voices.

An exacting blur then exudes from such a tapestry.
An exhilarating wisp then beholds my levitation.
And I fall, denying the dream of its topology.
I descend softly upon the line, a line bent
Slowly counterclockwise. And again I rotate, but
Yet I am still. Yet I pierce the center of
Those concave spirals, each of which is elegant,
Each of which denounces its introspection,
Denounces that hexagon it has cursively stained.

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

One more poem.

The Bitterness Of Water
--------------------------

Our souls become the bitterness of water. For I
Am repulsed by the taste of that elixir, of
That salve consumed via my thirst. And I knew
Such offense was blasphemy. I knew that the
Virtue of the droplets stung my throat, knew
That the purity of the wetness appeared to
Be vile and unsweet, as if it was a
Despicable poison. Ah, yet I respected this
Moisture as if it equaled sugar, as if it equaled
The cleansing magic I desire. Yet, why, why
Then does the drink appear less than bland? Why
Does the fluid epitomizing me, why does it
Revolt my amusement? For I am a hypocrite denying
The cosmos, denying the air I sip. But still,
Despite my pity and psychosis, I long for such a
Putrid flow, for such water constructing my blood.
I long to be quenched; and, yes, I long somehow to
Inevitably betray my regrettable aversion.

------------------

Update: Well, it looks like the first three poems today mention me falling. So that is almost a theme, if not for the last poem.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

The Peahen

Only one poem today. No pictures.

I wrote this only a couple days ago. It may not be the most amazing poem, but then.... it is not suppose to be.

The Peahen
-----------

She might have been as beautiful as a peacock;
But we were not inspired by her, the peahen.
Oh, amongst any other species she would have been
Extraordinary. Her lucid browns and fantastic tans
Radiated in their own iridescence. But still,
Poetry was not written of her. Still, she was
Not seen to be our metaphorical hallucination.

For, it was not her purpose to satiate humanity.

Oh, she rose unto the trees, further than
Any cosmic photon had, rose unto the glow
That complicates our nights. And she was
Lovely, yes, but forgotten. She was the peahen,
A submissive bird, perhaps. But she knew
That all beliefs were derived from dreams.
She knew that she too was psychedelic, knew
That in her less spectacular image, she was
Yet more imaginative, was yet more eternal and
Strange, was yet as a flower, a perfect fowl
Depicted abstractly within her apathy and libido.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Symmetry Of The Mandala 3

Symmetry Of The Mandala 2

Symmetry Of The Mandala 1

Sweet Hunger

Today's themes are plants, fruit, edible and tasty (and healthy too) vegetation.

Pictures: "Once An Apple", "A Banana Wounded", "An Extroverted Lemon", "Amongst This Fruit".






I haven't written that many poems about fruit and vegetation, but here are a few:

Here is a poem I wrote only a couple days ago:

An Apple Never Again
---------------------

The apple is cut into its third. And touching it, yes,
I sipped its vacant nectar. Inside its seeds, inside
Its transmutation, the strange spiral rose,
Rising to be yet another dream softly undermined.

Oh, the fruit was once hypocritical. But soon
It became sweet and enclosed. Soon its shell,
An indecisive peel, it too tasted introverted. It
Too tasted of such magnificent flesh. Oh, this
Trisected remnant of the quasi-sphere, it
Articulated its redemption. And then, the beige
Turned brown, the reddish green withered. And
The apple was never again defined by its beauty.
It never again tempted us with its defilement.
For, we also grew sick in our own aversion.

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

Here is another relatively recent poem:

Herbivorous
-------------

Slicing through this spherical fruit, I cut
Again parallel to, but distantly from,
The previous dissection.
Therefore, circumscribed is the chord. For it
Tastes of my tongue, looks like my eye.
And its sweet extraction becomes its sap.
Its liquid rises unto that spiral. In this
Milk is discovered the isolation in which
We are submerged. And I drown, yes. But
I am pleased that the tang of such nectar
Is my very thought. Ah, beautiful is this
Stain. Beautiful is the moist amber
That we have sipped. Oh, I doubt that I
Can be sickened by such a dessert. I doubt
That the molecules will tingle in my mind.
For, I am herbivorous. I am contaminated by
The fructose of shape, of nonconformity
Soon to be rancid and fermented and free.

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

Rotten And Forgotten
---------------------

Dreams leave us to forget them. But then I
Have seen the charisma of blasphemy. I sought
That angry expression made charming, made to glisten.
There within I provoked such proof; I conjectured such
Thoughts to be descending. I agonized regarding
The color of the enchanted twine. I redeemed
This puzzling spiral by its vacuous arousal. And
There too inside the line, I made the circles
Circumscribe us underneath those dreams, those dreams
We forget.

Ah, angles are again perplexing. Ah, I pretend to be
Amazed by my own self. Ah, I am grotesquely stale, yet
I am dreaming, dreaming of the carcass formed
From fruit both sweet and waning, both rotten
And forgotten, both mediocre and shapelessly drawn.

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

This Sinful Fluid
---------------------

The sour sweet dripped, oh, precious nectar,
Into the vile, the goblet glass.
And so I dare take the sip of this
Forbidden fruit-juice, this sinful fluid.
And aroused come the primal passions
Which confuse the super-ego and
Cause our emotions to dance so much askew.
And angered arrive our forgotten lusts,
Our deadly sins uncountable and infinite.
Oh, taste the drink of taboos broken,
Of genius now foolish, of divinity now insane.
And become your own regrets, your intellect
And purity discredited. Become
That creature which seemed to stalk you
In long ago nightmares dreamt
In nights much more innocent than this.

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

One more poem:

Shimmering Thorns
(The Botany Lesson)
---------------------

The stem protrudes upwards and away
From its own flower beneath us, rising to
The diagonal sky. The leaves correlate
With their tapered parallelism, becoming
But petals of mismatched transparency.
The fruit implodes into its invisibility,
Into its threefold concentricity, rendering
Such seeds to be both sweet and elliptical.
The glow of this specimen denies its edge,
Accumulating within the spiral of such
A soul. And the earth under which
All seen is below, there it grows filthy
And wet and beautiful -- there it begins
To sprout then die then recreate anew
This perfume, recreate this distance spun
As if any profanity would define that flora
Of our conclusion, of our shimmering thorns.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Ellipsoids

Today's theme is ellipsoids. (An ellipsoid, for those of you that do not know, is a 3-dimensional form made my rotating an ellipse along one of its axes. An ellipsoid is also a squished or elongated sphere, to put it much too simply.)

First the pictures. The first is "As Will Be Forgotten". The black-and-white picture is "Inevitable Dream". And the third picture is "Simile".
Also, I could have included the picture of mine "Profound Trapezoid" that is included in one of my earliest posts here (posted on July 20, 2008 -- that post was also named "Profound Trapezoid").





Now the poetry:

An old one:

An Ellipsoid Constructed
-------------------------------

*Oblivion -- a product of words spelled ex nihilo,
Spelled in medias res, of letters but in obvious
Permutations very inappropriate and imprecise --
*Oblivion -- a sum unexpected or somehow
Glowing as it is spoken, as it
Screams again onto all, onto
The perfect void ...
Unto one zero (the epitome of
Equality or the equality of epitomes).
*Oblivion --a simplest abstraction
Simply a calculation, steady or yet to be,
Yet to be printed as unreal smudges
And pencilled lines so unstraight or (again)
Unimplied by the ideal on which all is
Only graph-paper somehow un-cubical,
Somehow un-octahedral, un-dodecahedral, and
Not of any sphere (any sphere of any shape).
*Oblivion -- an ellipsoid constructed
From only this which nonexists,
Yet is constructed into something true,
Into absence as its very presence,
As its creation and its contemplation
From/of the arrangement of the entirety of
Integers positioned as if they will always be
Aperiodic.

---------------------

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.


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

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.

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

I might have posted this poem already. I am too lazy to check, however, so I will just post it.

The Shape Of Shapes
---------------------

The shape of the image of all shapes -- I envision
Its vertices to be symmetrical about a scalene edge.
I envision the perimeter of its interior to be elegant,
To be the smoothness of such tautology, of such topology.
And yet it is abstract and ellipsoidal. And yet the curl
Of the straightness extends into its extrapolation.
And I see the depictions of every maze, of
Each vision conceived and pronounced. I see
The vast prism of careless hues. And I saw
The hallucination of hallucinations, saw the light
Vaguely drawn upon its cloth. And I wondered,
What are these geometries encompassing? Are the
Shapes of shapes equal to their dominion? Or
Are the syllables encased in those loops? Are they
Finite and yet aesthetic and somehow bland? For,
I wonder if I can even observe this curvature, wonder
If I have simply forgotten those cosmic silhouettes
Of our withered eyes succumbing.

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

I might have already posted this poem too. As the second poem in this post, the following poems is also about an egg.

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.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

(I guess I could have also posted here the other picture that I posted as part of the message "Profound Trapezoid". That picture, "The Shape Of Meaning", is of an egg.)

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

In The Maze, Within The Labyrinth

As you can tell from this post's title today and from the pictures, today's themes are labyrinths and mazes.




An old poem to start:

Soul Maze
---------

I walk alone down the corridors
Of life’s labyrinth.
One turn leads to another
Leads to another.
Hopefully, I can exit this maze,
Succeed at waking from this dream.
But I have been eternally captured.
I have been trapped within myself,
My soul within my soul.
All ends are but beginnings.
All beginnings are but awakenings.

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

Another old poem:

Beauty Of The Maze
-------------------------

If I were to seek that ideal loveliness
Which is typically hidden from conforming eyes,
I might discover the secret of the labyrinth,
The shape of the infinitely large sphere.

So maybe I will attempt to compose
Dreams into visions, visions into sound.
And I know that this white-noise singing
Upon the television screen, that this will
Never be more than the perfect revelation
Acquired by staring at all stars exploding,
At the Earth becoming its own rotation.

And when nights conclude, forming themselves
Into daylight glowing, I will again regain
My salt-encrusted sight, and finally see
That that maze is unsolvable,
Though its beauty answers every mystery.

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

This following puzzle/poem looks messed up in any font that is not fixed-width.
Follow the words through the grid. If you take every path, a maze is formed.

This Maze (a poem)
----------


T H I S L A B Y R I N T V E S T E T
H I S G R I D E P P A H E R I A R H
. S P O E M . A T O N D N E X S O A
T S A D E I S R S W I A D N A A M N
R . O S N O B U T T H B O U T N Y I
U N V I S I . D L O E P A T H S S T
T E E B C I H W : E Z A M A N I O W
H E O O H . E L D D I S A , Y F O N
: V U T D I R E C T R I T N T C K L
E A R S M H W H T I Y . S I R E C A
V H G O E I S I E O R E V A T I F E
E E L A E C I E V N , A S I N L A ,
R W ? F S H H C A O T S O L F O R E
Y N O O R A L L I S S A W L O T E W
T H G Y L O P A H G U C H A R A N D
H I N G I S A S W U O R H T E N I O
I , I S S O . . E P U L E . T O L M
N G T I T I L L , A Z Z Y E T B E .



This(.) (grid.) ...
(Labyrinth appears to wind about
And never exist as any more than
Its own lack of certainty,
As {I.} its very riddle.)
Poem is but (told.) the paths in a maze:
Which direction, as in life,
Are we to follow
As to achieve this which seems
To be our goal?
For all is such a random line
Through a polygon
We have envisioned (so.) as truth:
Everything (,it is so.) (,it is still.) is as we,
A puzzle(.)
Yet to be.

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

Ugly Labyrinth
------------------

Life is an ugly labyrinth. Each soiled void of
Its distant passages are strangely angled and truncated.
Each corridor equals such a hurtful puncture within
Our tepid souls resisting their destiny to
Capsize and falter. Certainly, we traverse the maze
Which tangles us in its frothy cobwebs.
We stumble upon the walls and boundaries
Each comprehended but enticing. And we lose
Our trajectories among themselves, among again
The intricacies of situations, among the
Unexpected predictions devoid of memory, devoid of
Aesthetics. And yet we attempt to view all,
To see this existence from above every image.
We attempt to circumvent these sad meanderings,
Attempt to ascertain the shape of the scribbles
We have made into a substance coarsely subdivided.

///////////////////////////////

As Only A Labyrinth
--------------------------

A rainbow such as: such as this is only
A curve inflected within its curvature,
An S-shaped annulus as too the spiral,
As too the consciousness of existence, as too
The existence of absolute nothingness, of
Absolution and of every solution to each,
To each once-unsolved puzzle, to such,
To such as only a labyrinth,

A labyrinth
I have freed myself from and then
Resented my confinement inside it as more
Than ever might have possibly been
So beautiful, have
Possibly been so visible and intriguing.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Grids

I don't know exactly why I am going to do this. But today's theme is grids. That's right, grids.

"Another Addition Multiplied"




First poem, an old poem:

Every Pattern Upon The Tiles
------------------------------------

That angel of anger hopscotched
Upon this grid of confusion and
Madness, this radially-drawn square,
This jagged spiral only
Frustrating us and me.

For she playfully danced and spun
In every direction at once, in every
Pattern upon the tiles, on every path
Imaginable and not, tracing each chaotic
And yet periodic function, each
Sine-curve representing only polygons
And mindless (but genuine) genius lost
To its own daydreams pondered
While sleeping, while dead.

And still, even now, I am distracted.
For I too have danced upon those
Thinking mazes, found those complicated
Designs made by such a neuro-net inside,
Found them to be nothing more
Than simple, as simple as emptiness
Explained to an idiot comatose yet
Conformist, an idiot still aware
Of his focused gaze upon the scrawl.

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

Another old poem:

And Along This Grid
--------------------------

From along this gradient, of left to right,
Of red to violet, of beyond to within,
I told this truth
And its multiples;
I had shown the lines representing reality
To be sometimes parallel; oh, yes,
I had drawn such diagrams
Of light and of polyhedra,
Then explained the limits of ratios
Of divisors to be
In terms of pi and this summation.
I told,
I told the shadow
To move and become lit;
I told the emptiness to be all.
And along this grid
Number and color unite, and they tell,
They tell of existence and time,
And then they themselves perceive
Who/what is the observer
Of, of each photon speaking.

--------------

This Grid Barely Seen
--------------------------

Threaded within these filaments
Of damp amber and faint lepidopteran
Was what has been obvious and absent,
Is what has been of every loop returning
From faded fluids drowning our dreams
Of reality, drowning among woken spills
Resurrected if yet glued
Into a spiral tearing.
Sewn throughout our breath and its phrases
Was such relinquished sweat, were
These lipids hewn, were what shall be
Uttered and replenished, what shall be
Such virtue's perfume aghast,
What will somehow be the sworn filth
Made from the spark upon again
This grid, this plurality, barely seen.

==========

The Grid Embodies
-------------------------

The grid embodies these images of chaos. It
Amplifies the diagonality arranged into such
Rotation. It deafens my sight thoroughly. Yet
That enigma shouts, for it is timid. It screams,
For it is careless. And it mumbles its prayers,
For it is both angular and rectified.

Oh, the quilt of dreams transposes each square
Into the mass, into the coagulated molecule
Of complicated seclusion. The grid embodies
Those magnificent specks of illumination.
And seen within is meaningless enumeration,
Is imbalance finally made, finally strewn
Into the freckled blur we once encircled.

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

One more:

Truncated Aesthetics
-----------------------

Intrigued I am by infatuation for this very grid
Inside where divine divisibility equals itself,
Equals that which is reckoned to be
Thanklessly juxtaposed. Outlined assumptions are
Reconfigured there among us somehow to be indecipherable,
To be ousted from our conjectures, to be
The unkind earth which defines every butterfly,
Which defines every obsessive scribble.

And scribbled it is
By a dim pencil in dull light. Here
I cringe before these truncated aesthetics
So as to recite the purposes of existence, so as to
Recite again the syllables of uncertainty's impotence.
.
.
.
Thanks again
Leroy Quet

Naive Fish

Only a small post today.
I don't really like this poem very much. But I like it slightly much. So I will post it, along with a picture that goes well with the poem.

As The Naive Fish
-------------------

Humanity longs to be within the fishbowl,
To be afloat among the fermented water.
It longs to swim as the naive fish, inside
The protection of the glass, a globe hollow
And forgotten. Oh, but the fish believes
Its destiny is to be beyond this liquid cocoon.
It believes that the ocean infuses the epitome
Of its imagination. But the loneliness it
Suffers is incompatible with the air. And
So the fish can only wonder regarding
The mysteries and mysticism of the world
Past the glass, past the water, past the
Empty room with a solitary window. The fish
Can only have faith that it too will soon be
Free, will be joyful, will find its contentment,
Find its truth and perfection.
But we only sadistically sneer. For we know
That the fish is to always be alone, know
That it can only succumb to its euthanasia,
To its benign psychosis, a madness that
We too misconstrue for our own enlightenment,
For our virtuous magnificence surely certain,
Surely alive, even as our redemption is drowning.


Picture title: "Despite The Fishbowl".



Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Spirals Converging

Today my theme is spirals.
First the pictures.
Picture titles: "Inspire", "Amplitudes Desired", "Another Silhouette Within", "Of Shape And Essence", and "Refraction Concocted".







Now for the poems. Spirals occur quite frequently within my poems. So I will only be posting a small fraction of those poems that mention them.

An old one, first.


The Spiral Was
-------------------

The spiral was unsure of its own shape,
Insecure in its inability to rise up
Out of its own consciousness and gaze
Down upon its true existence, to
Finally be revealed to its own
Dreams and thoughts written long ago
In its lonely and foolish childhood.

And so it slept out of a sense of
Confusion and insight, out of its
Knowledge of the clashing
Of dimensions,
The conflict between lines curved
And straight; it dreamt of its own
Virginity never spoken to, its lust
Never loving, never obsessed by
The inevitability of all mathematics
Coalescing into one single equation,
One function plotted on some strange
And beautiful graph-paper.

Oh, yes. It was indeed the soul
In solitude. But it too was surely
Aware of its own design, its own
Purity never asking any question,
Yet understanding every answer, every
Ultimate and all-encompassing implication.


--------------

Another old poem:

Our Labyrinth
-----------------

But still the spiral did not inspire us.
For in spite of its symbolism, its voices;
Each of us, however distant from each
Other along the line, we are in reality
All enclosed within a much smaller truth,
Within a higher level of time and thought;
But despite this fantastic contortion,
We are but beholden to the gods
Of hatred, bigotry, anger, and war.
We are yet unable to climb the walls
Of our singular dimension, our prison,
Our labyrinth made of our humanity,
And gaze past the sky, beyond the edge
Of horizons made of stone and distrust.
But still the spiral may never inspire us.
For we are forever lost in our belief
That this reality can never be curved,
Never be anything but perfectly straight,
And only so for only us.


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

Yet another old one:

The Spiral Alone
--------------------

I am the spiral alone,
The single loop within itself,
The circle entwined with every circle,
Entwined with only its own curvature.
I am the reality within reality,
Am the spiral once seen, seen among
The web of worlds cracking into pieces,
Among the nests of every creature,
Among the simplest of spirals
Never reaching their centers, never
Reaching their most ideal of any edges.


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

There Were Dreams
-------------------

Once, there were dreams. But now the sleep
Of the mind's clangorous din, it evaporates
Then eviscerates its own metaphors. Ah, but now
The tangles of molecules each ruptured and stale,
They erode the brain's assumptive magnitudes.
They become the shrill spiral without axis
Or intensity. Once, there was the distance,
Was the diameter of forever. But now,
Surely, there is only the horizon under where
I am hidden. Now
There is only midnight endured and angry.
Now there are simply haphazard circumstances
Each forgotten and awkward, each strange
And convoluted, each bent by the curvature
Of macroscopic minutia, by the curl of
Asinine complications, of the satire evoking
My hubris and residue.

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

One more:

Despite The Clockwise Dream
---------------------------------

I am sipping the coil -- for it is its own circumference.
It is the vaporous point expanded into loops,
Into a directional spin overtly surrounded
By its own existence both planar and
Enclosed. I suckle the spiral round, suckle
The tangents unexpressed (but drawn). For into the center
Of each middle of every point converging we see
The complexity of vision known, see the simplicity
Of sight uncertain. We become the edge
Of each edge, despite our indefinite shape,
Despite the clockwise dream that we too
Possess so as to implode, so as to evaporate
Into the nothingness beyond us, so as to
Sip and suckle the perfume of beauty's diagonality,
Of beauty's madness alternatingly above and between.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Sweltering Starlight

I am thinking that today I will stick to the theme of stars, cosmos, the firmament, all that good stuff. First some pictures:







This first picture is titled "Surreal Stench". This has nothing to do with astronomy per se. But it looks like a super-nova at the point it first begins to rupture, in my opinion.
The second picture is titled "Of Cosmic Sands". Those are little tiny stars that are in this hourglass.
The third picture is titled "Tincture Of The Sparks". This picture looks kind of like a star in among other stars, perhaps.
And finally, the last picture is "A Powder Putrid And Placid". (No, that isn't cocaine.) This picture reminds me a bit of "Of Cosmic Sands". The powder is the stuff of stars and of space itself. If you don't believe me, then pretend it is just salt.

I will only post a few poems about stars, cosmos, etc, far fewer than the number of poems I have written on the subject.

First, a short old poem:

Corona Of The Moon
---------------------------

The corona of the moon
Burned brilliantly in my neon-red dreams,
Filling my obsessions with smoke
And a dawn still sleeping.

The stars in my mouth
Emanated as rainbows unto the earth,
This planet encased in ice and apparitions,
Turning at many angles

All simultaneously.
.............................................


Okay, next, a much newer poem:


A Horizon Without Curvature
----------------------------

Beyond my destitute soul, there is expressed
A horizon without curvature, with its trite sky.
And I stand upright so as to peer again
Past the lines, past their origin forgotten.
And I see the dawn emit its riddles,
Emit its images regarding truth. And I wonder,
What is reality, whether observed or obscured?
Where is the blasphemous sun hiding? Beyond,
Beyond my solitude's triumph, there I wake.
There I understand that I cannot fly. And so
I am beheld in my assumptions. For I know
That this dawn is entwined with dusk, know
That beyond, there underneath that which is
Eternal, there I turn sideways, as the stars.
And I am confused by these ghosts of selfishness,
Am confused by a horizon irradiant and unfolding.

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


A poem from I-don't-know-when:

The Stars Of That Vanishing Darkness
--------------------------------------

Daylight overtakes the night -- And the stars
Of that vanishing darkness, they transform
Into their invisibility.
Those celestial suns, massive and distant
And unobvious to human understanding, they
Hide behind the tapestry cast by morning. They
Spite their geometry; yet they also occlude
Their own dreams. These poignant points
Of extroverted flame, they are extinguished as
The new moon, defiled and thrown into oblivion
By the grandest amber of unseen white,
By the ironic blackness inside such circumference.
For here the stars are sustained, although made
Brighter still than every dawn, made brighter
Than before when the dimness was nocturnal.

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

An oldie:

The Invisible Moon
------------------------

She knew her powers had waned.
Her days of being worthwhile,
Of being a goddess unsurpassed,
Of possessing a virtue of beauty
That inspired poets, lovers, dreamers,
Murderers, thieves, and demons alike,
These days have fallen into pasts gone,
Into pasts secluded in darkness.
For she was now unseen;
She was now the new moon
In the savage daylight.
She was invisible;
And so her magic failed.

The sun laughed at her. But she knew
That she had company with the stars,
Those trillions of souls also invisible,
Also hidden from this reality illuminated.
And she plotted her return to grace,
To an existence where she reigned again.
For she would then cast her spell
Over the night. And the sun,
It would be powerless to interfere.
Yes, she would again in a future night,
With the stars as her court,
Rule over this world of visions.

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

Okay, one more. (This poem mentions hourglasses too.)

The Gaze Inward
-----------------------

Introverted is each concubine of our dismemberment,
Is every tranquil hourglass of salt, of sand,
Of stars, of cobwebs, of bubbles rising
Unto any epitome of oblivion.

And outward is the gaze inward, is
What was once imagined. For
I discovered this skin to be only
Compacted retribution made linear,
To be resolution made eccentric but stale,
Made vacuous but bisected, made solitary
And psychedelic and intuitively divergent,
Made lonely within these desires, within
Lust seemingly vanquished, seemingly
Prolonged, seemingly such a tempting equation.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Of Fonts And Images

I don't feel like posting any poetry today.
I just write to tell everyone why I changed the font on my blog to Courier. Well, even though I am NOT a serif fan, I like courier because it reminds me of a time decades ago when poetry was type-written on a mechanical typewriter, then possibly photocopied, before being posted on lamp-posts across the streets from trendy independent coffee shops.
The problem with this font is that I had to shrink it a bit, since at the previous size not all of each line of poetry can fit on just one line of the blog. So it may actually be harder to read than the default font was.

I did say I didn't have any poetry for you all today. But I do have pictures! (Pictures, yay!)

The first picture is titled "Bulbous Sky". (Don't ask me what it is suppose to be a picture of, exactly.)
The last picture is titled "An Innermost Metaphor". That seems appropriate, since my visual art is taking the place of any poetry today.




One last thing. As of now, I have the blog setting so that there are 10 posts put on the main page. So as of today, the first blog I wrote has vanished from the main page, since this is post number 11, I think.
If you want to see my first post (with its poem about a butterfly), I think you can still get to it via the archive link. Hopefully, anyway.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet