The theme is wind and air.
No pictures today. After all, wind is invisible.
--
I just wrote this poem yesterday:
Indescribable Pinwheel
-----------------------
We grasp at the indescribable pinwheel.
Yes, it is spinning despite our thoughts.
Yes, it intertwines with our hands, and we
Become the rotation within us. Yes, we are
Surreal and vague. We are rectangular, yet
We perceive ourselves to be round, to be
Circular in our vanishing. Ah, we grasp
The spiral surrounded by glass. Ah, we gaze
Into such refraction. And the shadows
Tilt in their resolution. They turn too,
As the pinwheel, about our aesthetics.
We curl and bend and reiterate the breeze.
For, we are ambidextrous and androgynous.
We are created from our motion immersed
In those trapezoids of curvature and
Its impending wings, in its eddies, in
Its whirlpools truncated but somehow frail.
+++++++++++
The Bending Breeze
--------------------
Oh, the bending breeze triumphed against this
Stagnant wind within us. And I woke to be
Afraid and putrid. I woke to sleep anew.
And I forgot the gusts, for they despised me.
I remembered the bizarre placement of air upon air,
Of voices heard inside that crescendo. Ah,
The turbulence beyond my ceiling, it was roused
By my motion. And I exhaled, hoping for exactness.
For, in this dire earth I am saddened,
Am angered by the hideous opaqueness. But I
Will breathe upon all magic, will ascend as
My face, ascend above us each, and mutate
Into the simple conclusion, into reality made
Of its consequences, made of all triteness
Now evoked, now placid and emerging.
...................
Not about wind per se, but about the turbulence of the universe, which wind epitomizes.
Convection
---------------
And this fluid, our universe, boils.
It churns itself through its own eruption,
Via its single collapse out of
Thoughtless thorns, from out of the depths
Of convection, of each mantra spun.
For unsightly helixes tear at space
And at its vacuous yet solid yet incestuous
Topology. For it serves this mundaneness.
It serves only lust and our souls' ambitions
To be simply stone, to be simply blood,
To be but scrawled epitomes each wondering
If gradients scraped from reality can
Resist this skin.
And beauty's windchimes
Talk of that reality, sing of worlds
Enduring yet subtle, enduring but
Flatter still than any ellipse,
Than any fluid containing
Such relics as our own, as those among
The silt, among the void we have captured as if,
As if it bubbled, as if it too was boiling.
=============
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.
****************
That Gust Belongs
------------------
A cusp above it, almost a cusp below it, this blob
Of fuchsia liquor drips onto the air. And that
Wind is telling in such a cosmic weathervane. Oh,
That gust belongs within a prism of uncertainty
And shape. So, pressing my fist upon that point,
I cut into my anger. But still it denies me.
Still, it swirls and gurgles among the light.
And I drink the potion's droplets. But they
Are not a salve for my thirst. Yes,
I am moist again against the stone screams.
I am distant but somehow near within
The indirect angles seen, within the cusp above
And slightly below us. For, there the emptiness
Is replenished, is overflowing in its satiation.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Tornado
---------
I knew that the wind upset my dream. And in this
Dark sky I saw the shape, I saw the epitome
Of death, of hellish agony. In the blackish clouds
I saw all reality spinning. And I knew I was dreaming;
Therefore, inevitable was the storm.
Ah, protruding downward was the proboscis of a
Ravenous god. This fear within us descended until
It became the filth it upheaved. And towards us
Came the thunder, came the ghost of darkness.
Towards that truth I held sacred came this apocalypse.
And the roar was opaque. And the night overcame us.
And we hid beneath ourselves. Oh, the passage
Of the wind, of that explosive breath of Satan,
It, I knew, was always impending. Oh, it is never
To be beyond our dream awakened or vicious or
Exaggerated. Yet it is surely to be again such a prong
Evoked by air and its assertive superstitions.
ooooooooooooooooo
And Then These Currents
--------------------------
The elegant sands of this fluid's emergence
Swirl and oscillate and transform into again
This superposition, translate into the froth of
Spectacular grit. Oh, withered and wisping are
The crevices that become the smoke that becomes
This uttered silt within us each. And then
These hues of auras gasping, they subdivide yet
Into transparent rain, into the wind made flat.
And then these currents in the midst of our dreams
Release themselves so as to conjure this
Which is their continuity, which is surely
The inspired convolutions of such parallel air.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, an old one.
Intertwined Gusts
----------------------
The intertwined gusts of this convoluted air
Aspire to rectify, to become their laughter,
To become the scrawl upon such an abacus.
The intermingled gasps of these extroverted gods,
They amplify and beckon unto that topology.
They retract and extend unto that shallowness,
Unto an astigmatic image surely alluring,
Surely blown throughout by particles of concern.
And the invisible wind overtakes us, becoming
The darkness beneath these clouds. And then
The evaporation exploits us, transforming into such
Exalted whispers, into exaggeration only imprecise.
Leroy Quet
Friday, October 31, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Light Glowing Colorfully
Today's theme: light, color.
Almost all of my pictures relate to color somehow. But here are some that are particularly on-topic.
First picture: "A Glow Circumvented". Second picture: "Reddish Green". Middle picture: "A Prism Once Conclusive". Fourth picture: "Prismaz". Last picture: (simply) "Light".
Yellow And Purple
-------------------
The tincture of the tints create within me
Truth's contradictions. Balanced upon their
Symmetry, such colors become dichotomy and
Its complement. Oh, both yellow and purple
Distract me from such oxymora. But yet
I see in the composition of opposition
The allure of every calculation made. And
This triumph of astigmatism is metallic.
Yes, it is fluid and transparent, and still
It remains more opaque than glass. Still,
The yellow and the purple tempt my darkness.
They tempt my aesthetics transforming.
For, once yellow was ugly then beautiful.
Then afterward the violet aroused me. But
Now I am transfixed by each constituent
Of the chord; I am certain I am vague,
Although those hues are perfect in all
Coordination.
================
I wrote this one only yesterday:
Unto Those Colors
------------------
Formed as a pristine stone, this glass spheroid
Was devoid of bellicose constituents. And
Such light from beyond it, from beyond ourselves,
It flung itself into the angled edge. And then,
Touching that lens, the colors diverged,
Becoming their own bending sadism. Ah,
Within the transparent solidity, there all
Was diagonal and enlightened. There the
Photons were remade and then made ignorant.
And, finally, from this egg emerged
That refracted profanity, emerged explanations
Each surreal, emerged magic's theorems and
Mundanity's hallucinations. For, from the rock,
This light expressed its essence. Then
It continued, ascending again unto the cosmos,
Unto the indecision within us, unto those colors
Created from their category, created
From their wondrous magnification.
+++++++++
Stereoscope
------------
Oh, we gaze vainly into the stereoscope, looking through
A vague lens. And thus we believe in the deception.
Thus, we perceive the convexity of concavity, perceive
The very glass of such a window denied. Oh,
We gaze unto a careless dream, a world of
Shimmering stains. And these colors enlighten
Our assumptions of dimension. But we still
Invoke the flatness that is our shame. We
Still imply within our sight this destiny made
From photographic geometry. For, in that mesh
Is seen dichotomy, is seen left versus right, is seen
All versus anything. And then the dim lamp betrays;
And we somehow mock those memories; we
Somehow resolve our metaphors of imagination
Between our minds' elaborate creations, each of which
Is diffuse and refracted in its horizontality.
****************
Rainbows Of Venus
-------------------------
Should I have seen these rainbows? --
The rainbows of Venus, oh,
They intersect purest truth to become
The strangest light darkening, to
Be the stilts we (as madpeople) use
To trample over these careless numbers
Frustrating their temptation ...
The rainbows of a thin world
Utter the emptiness if yet to remain
Within the storm created from this
Which is our determination, which are
Colors far from our understanding,
Far from places and pleasures
Sometimes seen through this glass of stone.
.....................
Each Hue Of The Spectrums Multitudinous Glow
---------------------------------------------------
I had forgotten to invent the colors. For they
Were too withered to be complicated, were
Too entrancing to be observed. And I held
Each hue of the spectrums multitudinous glow;
And I placed it within the image of this
Which is both isosceles and apparent. I placed
The absurdity of this rhombus upon the page
Of translucent crumbs, placed the spiral onto
The topography of every atom of cyan,
Of fuchsia, of yellow scintillatingly surreal;
Onto the prayers of apathetic inspiration, of
Perpetual hollowness curved into its own
Quantification, into its own enigma resolved.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
A Prism Drawn
-------------------
A prism drawn in these skies,
Understood, it is only of its clarity.
It solely is its shape
As the droplet of crystal
And shadow always eclipsed.
It solely is an aspect of syzygy,
That which is containing
Only two in alignment:
Itself and its own existence.
It is a prism drawn
Upon paper made transparent
By our inability to show
It has ever been real,
By the colors composed
And virtuous;
Upon paper made torn
By the lines themselves
Intersecting, the lines
Themselves simultaneously
Erased and straight.
oooooooooooooo
And I Loved The Color Yellow
-------------------------------------
I once - - long ago in very distant youth,
Though still remembered in crayon and pastel - -
I found my desires ironic, my contentment
Confused by my very awareness of it.
And I loved the color yellow.
I loved that which I never could love,
And because so, in contrast to
My adulthood, where such contrary lust
Is completely unintentional and despised
By precisely the same soul partaking.
I was enthralled by the beauty in that
Which I found ugly. (Now, it is vice versa.)
I was drawn to this epitome of
My own epitome, to that which
Empathizes with my imperfect purity.
(Now, I fear such ... as well as hope for it.)
And now I love the color fuchsia.
I love this which is expected of me,
This which is not any single tone
Upon the spectrum, this which will
Be and serve as my current nonconformity,
My current oneness with those years
Of my isolated appreciation unappreciated
And my mind’s sight color-blind, those years
Once young.
///////////////////////
Refracted
-------------
Refracted is the similarity of this essence
Of converging loops both elegant and reassuring.
For into the superficial transparency we gaze
So as to remain elongated and striated as
The light, as the luminescence resounding
Within the darkness, within the circularity
Of shadows and wind. Refracted is the truth,
Is the understanding we imply by our emptiness.
And so too is this rotation bent. So too is the
Lens equal to its certainty. And I resent such
Precognition. But even that is dim; even that is
Tilted and directed into the aesthetic glow above.
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
A Sacrifice Of Rainbows
------------------------------
A sacrifice of rainbows, but
Never divine, never inspiring, are these hues.
She formed herself into her beauty,
Only to shed this light as if again,
As if she was adored.
She spoke in striations fantastic,
In spectra scintillating,
And held her aura within.
Oh, a sacrifice of images projected absurdly
Upon this sky (a shadow),
It is, as we, failing but to be
Exact and precisely perfect
Of its, of any, soul, of mine.
Leroy Quet
Almost all of my pictures relate to color somehow. But here are some that are particularly on-topic.
First picture: "A Glow Circumvented". Second picture: "Reddish Green". Middle picture: "A Prism Once Conclusive". Fourth picture: "Prismaz". Last picture: (simply) "Light".
Yellow And Purple
-------------------
The tincture of the tints create within me
Truth's contradictions. Balanced upon their
Symmetry, such colors become dichotomy and
Its complement. Oh, both yellow and purple
Distract me from such oxymora. But yet
I see in the composition of opposition
The allure of every calculation made. And
This triumph of astigmatism is metallic.
Yes, it is fluid and transparent, and still
It remains more opaque than glass. Still,
The yellow and the purple tempt my darkness.
They tempt my aesthetics transforming.
For, once yellow was ugly then beautiful.
Then afterward the violet aroused me. But
Now I am transfixed by each constituent
Of the chord; I am certain I am vague,
Although those hues are perfect in all
Coordination.
================
I wrote this one only yesterday:
Unto Those Colors
------------------
Formed as a pristine stone, this glass spheroid
Was devoid of bellicose constituents. And
Such light from beyond it, from beyond ourselves,
It flung itself into the angled edge. And then,
Touching that lens, the colors diverged,
Becoming their own bending sadism. Ah,
Within the transparent solidity, there all
Was diagonal and enlightened. There the
Photons were remade and then made ignorant.
And, finally, from this egg emerged
That refracted profanity, emerged explanations
Each surreal, emerged magic's theorems and
Mundanity's hallucinations. For, from the rock,
This light expressed its essence. Then
It continued, ascending again unto the cosmos,
Unto the indecision within us, unto those colors
Created from their category, created
From their wondrous magnification.
+++++++++
Stereoscope
------------
Oh, we gaze vainly into the stereoscope, looking through
A vague lens. And thus we believe in the deception.
Thus, we perceive the convexity of concavity, perceive
The very glass of such a window denied. Oh,
We gaze unto a careless dream, a world of
Shimmering stains. And these colors enlighten
Our assumptions of dimension. But we still
Invoke the flatness that is our shame. We
Still imply within our sight this destiny made
From photographic geometry. For, in that mesh
Is seen dichotomy, is seen left versus right, is seen
All versus anything. And then the dim lamp betrays;
And we somehow mock those memories; we
Somehow resolve our metaphors of imagination
Between our minds' elaborate creations, each of which
Is diffuse and refracted in its horizontality.
****************
Rainbows Of Venus
-------------------------
Should I have seen these rainbows? --
The rainbows of Venus, oh,
They intersect purest truth to become
The strangest light darkening, to
Be the stilts we (as madpeople) use
To trample over these careless numbers
Frustrating their temptation ...
The rainbows of a thin world
Utter the emptiness if yet to remain
Within the storm created from this
Which is our determination, which are
Colors far from our understanding,
Far from places and pleasures
Sometimes seen through this glass of stone.
.....................
Each Hue Of The Spectrums Multitudinous Glow
---------------------------------------------------
I had forgotten to invent the colors. For they
Were too withered to be complicated, were
Too entrancing to be observed. And I held
Each hue of the spectrums multitudinous glow;
And I placed it within the image of this
Which is both isosceles and apparent. I placed
The absurdity of this rhombus upon the page
Of translucent crumbs, placed the spiral onto
The topography of every atom of cyan,
Of fuchsia, of yellow scintillatingly surreal;
Onto the prayers of apathetic inspiration, of
Perpetual hollowness curved into its own
Quantification, into its own enigma resolved.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
A Prism Drawn
-------------------
A prism drawn in these skies,
Understood, it is only of its clarity.
It solely is its shape
As the droplet of crystal
And shadow always eclipsed.
It solely is an aspect of syzygy,
That which is containing
Only two in alignment:
Itself and its own existence.
It is a prism drawn
Upon paper made transparent
By our inability to show
It has ever been real,
By the colors composed
And virtuous;
Upon paper made torn
By the lines themselves
Intersecting, the lines
Themselves simultaneously
Erased and straight.
oooooooooooooo
And I Loved The Color Yellow
-------------------------------------
I once - - long ago in very distant youth,
Though still remembered in crayon and pastel - -
I found my desires ironic, my contentment
Confused by my very awareness of it.
And I loved the color yellow.
I loved that which I never could love,
And because so, in contrast to
My adulthood, where such contrary lust
Is completely unintentional and despised
By precisely the same soul partaking.
I was enthralled by the beauty in that
Which I found ugly. (Now, it is vice versa.)
I was drawn to this epitome of
My own epitome, to that which
Empathizes with my imperfect purity.
(Now, I fear such ... as well as hope for it.)
And now I love the color fuchsia.
I love this which is expected of me,
This which is not any single tone
Upon the spectrum, this which will
Be and serve as my current nonconformity,
My current oneness with those years
Of my isolated appreciation unappreciated
And my mind’s sight color-blind, those years
Once young.
///////////////////////
Refracted
-------------
Refracted is the similarity of this essence
Of converging loops both elegant and reassuring.
For into the superficial transparency we gaze
So as to remain elongated and striated as
The light, as the luminescence resounding
Within the darkness, within the circularity
Of shadows and wind. Refracted is the truth,
Is the understanding we imply by our emptiness.
And so too is this rotation bent. So too is the
Lens equal to its certainty. And I resent such
Precognition. But even that is dim; even that is
Tilted and directed into the aesthetic glow above.
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
A Sacrifice Of Rainbows
------------------------------
A sacrifice of rainbows, but
Never divine, never inspiring, are these hues.
She formed herself into her beauty,
Only to shed this light as if again,
As if she was adored.
She spoke in striations fantastic,
In spectra scintillating,
And held her aura within.
Oh, a sacrifice of images projected absurdly
Upon this sky (a shadow),
It is, as we, failing but to be
Exact and precisely perfect
Of its, of any, soul, of mine.
Leroy Quet
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Spirals Again Converging
Today's theme: Spirals.
Yes, I already had a post about spirals. But there are so many poems and pictures of mine that use that theme.
See the original spiral post here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/08/blog-post_1465.html
First picture: "Concave Spiral". Second picture: "Solid Space". Middle picture: "Shapelessness Designed". Fourth picture: "The Taste Of Glass". And last picture: "Focus-0".
Upright Was The Spiral
------------------------
Upon the edge of this forgotten circle,
Upon the perimeter of an uncurving whirlpool,
Upright was the spiral, a voiceless loop
Turning into its surrealness obtained. Upright
Was the final convergence; in this we are
Darker than our epitomes. And we sleep
Above the wonder we imply by our dreams.
Yes,
Upright is the magnification of those conjectures,
For, we equate them we extreme intermediacy.
We equate truth with imagination. And we
Evaluate these mangled theorems once again.
We calculate the verticality of such spirals,
Each placed at the circumference of ambivalence,
Each placed within imprecise exactness, within
A paradigm of certainty decidedly confusing.
++++++++++++++
Mangled Apparition Of Righteousness
---------------------------------------
Profoundly the globule suspended above its floor,
Profoundly it is pressed into the clarity within.
Against the coil is formed that exoskeleton, is
Made the shadows glistening, for they are magnificent.
And I tell you of this sphere, because it descends
And replenishes an adjacent spiral. Yes, outward
And inward the spiral diverges. But yet in this glass
Is known the fire, is known the callousness of
Stone and bone and flesh contained but yet drawn,
But yet sketched with a sickening pen. Ah, I,
Perhaps, will transfuse that prism with what
Is saddened by my darkness. Ah, I will perceive
The final helix to be its own occlusion, to
Be its own elongation and enslavement. But
Thus, thus we distract our focus now astray;
Thus we covet such spirals as they diffuse, as
They concur with the grasp curled abruptly
Into our mangled apparition of righteousness.
.......................
(I might have posted the following poem already.)
Not Yet A Spiral
------------------
In a cobweb levitating within what is beneath
The flattened pinnacle, destiny hung inside its
Spherical rot. And in that globe was drawn
This surface not yet a spiral. But, still, it
Turned, concentrating, converging into a
Hollow center. Although it rose again outward,
And completed itself in such intermediacy.
And between the shell and the cocoon, this coil
Became its transparent colors. Then, in these
Encased aesthetics, that helix flew up,
Flew under the crumpled sky. And it
Rested in the cobweb it will imagine.
And it was moist and worthy of its shape.
It was epitomized by its metaphors. And
Therefore it forgot its space; it foresaw
Its truth. It restrained its containment,
Thirsting for its hunger, for its existence
Coiled beyond all such deja vu.
=============
Regarding Spirals
-----------------------
If I had invented spirals, ha,
I would have become the very rotation
Obscured by my circumference,
Would have remained this mandala
Of ellipsoids and imagery, of
The horizon exploding -- transmuting
Into specks, into sparks -- of what
Has grasped at certainty, only to
Ask of subdivided grids the question
Regarding spirals returning to their centers,
To their lines and abstraction
Too perfect to be envisioned.
*********************
Its Ascension Vaguely Flat
----------------------------
Curled about this globule, a prism, is all that is
Adjoining and complete. Surrounding that spiral
Is a spiral, within is again such a coil of isolation.
Curled, yet vaporous despite its loop, despite its
Mathematics, curled and curved are these whispers,
Are these voices of oblique amazement. Yes,
Curled anew is each assumption of awareness,
Is each atom of cognition made ashen, made
Wet and fluid and viscous; as it too is mud.
..And I wrap the circumference of trapezoids
..Within its epitome redeemed. Ah, it is enclosed,
..Then it surrounds our lemicons, it surrounds
..Every suffix of elongation -- for it is indeed
..Clockwise, is indeed its ascension vaguely flat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Overt Shape
---------------
Curve around the spiral itself curved
Through and surrounding what was once
Its one center remaining absurd yet beautiful
-- Misplaced inspiration, inspiration misplaced --
Diagonal then flat then vertical until
Again the shape becomes overt -- atoms
Of loops withheld, of turpentine and bread
Filtering through our skin so as to return to
Simply tragedy's milk -- Oh, the spirals love
Their pompous light, love their
Silhouetted truncation, have loved their truth
And purpose within us -- curve around
The spiral itself curved -- and then explode
Into lemniscates rotated, forming our horizon,
Forming our mandala just at, obviously, what is
Our grasp's farthest reach.
ooooooooooooooooo
As A Spiral Dreamt
--------------------
Inside these molecules of rotation, I enclose
Myself in what is somewhat the spiral dreamt.
Horizontally, vertically, into the depths of ascension
It curves, remaining not quite flat, but yet
It obtains these rings of distant dimensions.
Inside such convex crescents enumerated surely
Via their radii oblong and considerate, there
I finalize the ultimate vertex oddly sought,
There I fill the coil with its own axis strangely
Diagonal, strangely unimagined. Inside these
Droplets bisected and duplicated, within I return
To the flatness, I retreat to the pinnacle of
This vacuous truth defined as but a definition,
Defined as a spiral dreamt -- but it soon becomes
Its own collapse, becomes its expansion into a
Structure obvious, into a substance profoundly of
Such conclusion.
Leroy
Yes, I already had a post about spirals. But there are so many poems and pictures of mine that use that theme.
See the original spiral post here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/08/blog-post_1465.html
First picture: "Concave Spiral". Second picture: "Solid Space". Middle picture: "Shapelessness Designed". Fourth picture: "The Taste Of Glass". And last picture: "Focus-0".
Upright Was The Spiral
------------------------
Upon the edge of this forgotten circle,
Upon the perimeter of an uncurving whirlpool,
Upright was the spiral, a voiceless loop
Turning into its surrealness obtained. Upright
Was the final convergence; in this we are
Darker than our epitomes. And we sleep
Above the wonder we imply by our dreams.
Yes,
Upright is the magnification of those conjectures,
For, we equate them we extreme intermediacy.
We equate truth with imagination. And we
Evaluate these mangled theorems once again.
We calculate the verticality of such spirals,
Each placed at the circumference of ambivalence,
Each placed within imprecise exactness, within
A paradigm of certainty decidedly confusing.
++++++++++++++
Mangled Apparition Of Righteousness
---------------------------------------
Profoundly the globule suspended above its floor,
Profoundly it is pressed into the clarity within.
Against the coil is formed that exoskeleton, is
Made the shadows glistening, for they are magnificent.
And I tell you of this sphere, because it descends
And replenishes an adjacent spiral. Yes, outward
And inward the spiral diverges. But yet in this glass
Is known the fire, is known the callousness of
Stone and bone and flesh contained but yet drawn,
But yet sketched with a sickening pen. Ah, I,
Perhaps, will transfuse that prism with what
Is saddened by my darkness. Ah, I will perceive
The final helix to be its own occlusion, to
Be its own elongation and enslavement. But
Thus, thus we distract our focus now astray;
Thus we covet such spirals as they diffuse, as
They concur with the grasp curled abruptly
Into our mangled apparition of righteousness.
.......................
(I might have posted the following poem already.)
Not Yet A Spiral
------------------
In a cobweb levitating within what is beneath
The flattened pinnacle, destiny hung inside its
Spherical rot. And in that globe was drawn
This surface not yet a spiral. But, still, it
Turned, concentrating, converging into a
Hollow center. Although it rose again outward,
And completed itself in such intermediacy.
And between the shell and the cocoon, this coil
Became its transparent colors. Then, in these
Encased aesthetics, that helix flew up,
Flew under the crumpled sky. And it
Rested in the cobweb it will imagine.
And it was moist and worthy of its shape.
It was epitomized by its metaphors. And
Therefore it forgot its space; it foresaw
Its truth. It restrained its containment,
Thirsting for its hunger, for its existence
Coiled beyond all such deja vu.
=============
Regarding Spirals
-----------------------
If I had invented spirals, ha,
I would have become the very rotation
Obscured by my circumference,
Would have remained this mandala
Of ellipsoids and imagery, of
The horizon exploding -- transmuting
Into specks, into sparks -- of what
Has grasped at certainty, only to
Ask of subdivided grids the question
Regarding spirals returning to their centers,
To their lines and abstraction
Too perfect to be envisioned.
*********************
Its Ascension Vaguely Flat
----------------------------
Curled about this globule, a prism, is all that is
Adjoining and complete. Surrounding that spiral
Is a spiral, within is again such a coil of isolation.
Curled, yet vaporous despite its loop, despite its
Mathematics, curled and curved are these whispers,
Are these voices of oblique amazement. Yes,
Curled anew is each assumption of awareness,
Is each atom of cognition made ashen, made
Wet and fluid and viscous; as it too is mud.
..And I wrap the circumference of trapezoids
..Within its epitome redeemed. Ah, it is enclosed,
..Then it surrounds our lemicons, it surrounds
..Every suffix of elongation -- for it is indeed
..Clockwise, is indeed its ascension vaguely flat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Overt Shape
---------------
Curve around the spiral itself curved
Through and surrounding what was once
Its one center remaining absurd yet beautiful
-- Misplaced inspiration, inspiration misplaced --
Diagonal then flat then vertical until
Again the shape becomes overt -- atoms
Of loops withheld, of turpentine and bread
Filtering through our skin so as to return to
Simply tragedy's milk -- Oh, the spirals love
Their pompous light, love their
Silhouetted truncation, have loved their truth
And purpose within us -- curve around
The spiral itself curved -- and then explode
Into lemniscates rotated, forming our horizon,
Forming our mandala just at, obviously, what is
Our grasp's farthest reach.
ooooooooooooooooo
As A Spiral Dreamt
--------------------
Inside these molecules of rotation, I enclose
Myself in what is somewhat the spiral dreamt.
Horizontally, vertically, into the depths of ascension
It curves, remaining not quite flat, but yet
It obtains these rings of distant dimensions.
Inside such convex crescents enumerated surely
Via their radii oblong and considerate, there
I finalize the ultimate vertex oddly sought,
There I fill the coil with its own axis strangely
Diagonal, strangely unimagined. Inside these
Droplets bisected and duplicated, within I return
To the flatness, I retreat to the pinnacle of
This vacuous truth defined as but a definition,
Defined as a spiral dreamt -- but it soon becomes
Its own collapse, becomes its expansion into a
Structure obvious, into a substance profoundly of
Such conclusion.
Leroy
Friday, October 17, 2008
Paper Barely Torn
Today's theme: Paper.
First picture: "Crumpled And Slightly Flat". Second picture: "Meaninglessness Conveyed". Third picture: "Sacraments Of Conjecture". Fourth picture: "Equilateral". Last picture: "Three Sheets Of Paper".
The first poem of this post actually has nothing to do with paper. (Well, actually, ALL poetry has something to do with paper...)
It is a poem I wrote today that would fit in well in the last post about machines. So think of it as a post-script for the last set of poems on this blog.
This Scale Without Equilibrium
--------------------------------
(This Device)
--------------
This device understood its dreams. But yet
It knew not its actual center. Yet it finally did.
Oh, it was calibrated by such forgotten ascension.
And it posed, becoming the barometer of our
Nonconforming convergence, of our bland assumptions.
It became the thermostat under which we
Remained human, over which we concealed our
Emergence. Oh, this device enumerated the
Polygons, counted our bisectors upon the dimensions
Of the space of comprehension. And it measured truth
Via its own lies. Then it compared every dichotomy
With its conjugate. And purity soon
Reawakened to achieve the balance of this
Scale without equilibrium. Thus, the device perceived
All reality through its indicator, through
Our own hallucinations distinctively misaligned.
=============
Now, back to paper.
Well, this poem is not that much about paper either. Just a little.
Once And Thereafter Isosceles
------------------------------
Gazing upon the game, I oscillate and
Deny my certainty. For, I am defined via
The page, via the circle and its diameters.
Oh, we draw the straight lines from this
Circumference to itself opposed. And
These intersecting edges may betray destiny,
Might beget the entirety of such precognition.
So, then I scrawl from vertex to vertex,
Epitomizing my vagueness by triumph, by
Interaction. But soon the mesh is complete.
Soon the triangles become my theorems,
Become the truth of finality. And you,
You become my strangeness, and I become yours.
But who is magnificent in their loss?
And who plays the gambit never made,
Transforming the paper into the cobweb, into
Its complexity once and thereafter isosceles?
++++++++++
Concept
----------
If the shadows cast across our world
By those dreams of crumpled paper
And of lines in the sky,
If that darkness contained any meaning,
Any meaning aside from conceit for conception,
Then the patterns drawn on the inside
Of my consciousness, they would have purpose,
Have intrinsic value ultimately and completely.
But, alas, I am far from certain that
Any of the circles and grids and spirals
Have an existence upon the ether,
Upon these mathematical and scientific constants
Which imply the entire whole and all
Of the simplest single points at each vertex
Of an infinite-dimensional cube.
..................
The Ink Imagines
-----------------
The ink tingles. And, therefore, it is haphazard.
It is scratched into the canvas of emptiness.
It is drawn as words onto a paper presumed.
And each verb scrawled alternates in its character
From every noun. For the former are straight
And perpendicular. Yet the latter are curved,
Concentric, and dripping. And I intersect
Adjectives with abstraction. But, still, these
Linear phrases entice my convexity. And I
Become swollen, become intricate and simplistic.
For the ink imagines, imagines its constituents
To be of shape and emotion. So, I sip again
The syrup black; then I am distant. Then
I am prolific, am precise; then I am
Demanding of the squiggles inside where I
Have written what I endure, where I have written
Of that ambiguity in which such truth differs.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
The Pages Of An Undecided Book
---------------------------------
And in that world without beginning, I glance
Upon the immediate images made from the pages
Of an undecided book. Then I understand, I
Am dreaming. And I wonder, are these hallucinations,
These visions, are they implying my own soul? Or are
The tableaux I observe equal only to their plagiarism?
Ah, I quickly shift the page, and then another
Perception is drawn for my imagination's ambiguous edge.
Then I forget the pleasures observed -- the pages never
Become again what they were. Then I tear
The paper callously. But such an infraction
Does not remain, does not matter. Because I only recall
The white of this tome, only recall the
Creases without shape. For I deny that these
Geometries are mine, deny that the dream
Is truly false. So I place the book aside,
Preparing myself to wake, to confront my self-betrayal.
****************
That Eternal Cloth
--------------------
The paper, that eternal cloth, it enveloped me; it
Flung into the fold, into the abrupt bend.
Curved and delicate, the lines of such a spiral
Enclosed me and my echoes. And that reverberation
Is gray, as too is the cocoon of pulp. And flat
Is the wad prior to its destruction. Yet it now
Is convex, is now convoluted, is also crumpled
And unsettled in its vertigo, in its tangents all
Rotated and shattered and caustic. Oh, the paper
Tears, but still it is stained by imagination.
Still it creases and crinkles and redeems its blandness.
For I draw upon its beauty the perplexing ambiguity,
Draw upon it the geometry of complicated permutations,
Of complimentary diagonals each surrounding me
Via such a semicircular and thoughtless shroud.
oooooooooooooooo
Unfolded And Torn Is This Paper
---------------------------------
Unfolded and torn is this shell, is this paper
Upon which I once drew such words, words of
Severed strangeness and perception. Displaced, yes,
Is that certain light that has determined its own
Superstitions, that has demanded that the page be
Crushed then burned then made moist but spectacular.
Oh, those shards of shapeless flatness, they are
A hindrance and an irradiant dream. For I unfold
The peel from its enlightenment, unfold the
Reams made into our phonemes wrought and written
Onto the voices themselves, onto forgotten poetry.
And I pronounce these scribbled images sacred.
I pronounce the syllables as if they remain
Within my virtue. Yet I then shatter all the
Perversions of my mind, erasing such sounds from
Paper I again fold and tear, that I again betray,
Never assuming those possibilities could have
Abstained from absence, from ink surely contrived.
/////////////////////
Amongst The Paper Encased
--------------------------------
The paper upon which is drawn the circle, the square,
Is drawn the ellipsoid shaded by its form (despite
Its topology) -- this page shelters the very image
Which reverberates within it. This imprecise dream
Traces its assumptions above the flatness evolved, above
The scintillating machine we have envisioned.
Abbreviated, certainly, is that random epitomization
Of graphite and ink cursively hewn onto such pulp.
Yet similarity denies the finitude of any spiral,
Of any calculations coarsely flung, then thrown
Among the lines and void of white amber, amongst
The paper encased by sacred insignia, by emptiness
Made into thought made into mathematics made dark
And illegible but smudged, made into these
Obtuse silhouettes of our perception.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of This Such Scratch-Paper
----------------------------------
Divided
Into subdivisions, into
Multiples, again into inconsistent fractions
Again constant (and unequal to any ratio) ...
I approached, as an inexpressible approximation,
My distant madness of such this scratch-paper.
I randomly proposed these imagined scribbles
Onto the pages of my insignificance
(Yet always still my most significant reality)
Onto pages unimpressed
By their once erased vacuousness
(Remaining as it has remained).
We: pronouns resurrected as integers
Inconsistent on these abaci,
In these lines unplotted, unknown,
Forgotten ...
We were nothing but illegible
And symbolic of nothing.
We were but of no expression
Of my distant madness, of this such
Scratch-paper, of
This such scripture
Torn into exclusively edges.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Inevitably Torn
-------------------
Every vision of our empty-sets,
Of the most dimly-lit pages
Onto where not one syllable has
Ever been written, where
Not any pencil nor pen (nor
Hastily scratched image) has finally formed,
Finally been drawn into the creases and rips
Of reality threatened by its truth
Inevitably torn...
But if we collapse our perceptions
Into but that knot of paper,
Of paper itself the poetry
It would have had once printed upon it,
(But alas, such is plain) --
We will never find the purposes quite
Free and once adored. But ultimately,
In some way, we will redeem
The ignorance of our resentment
By the act of an inexplicable humanity,
By the anger which tosses that
Crumpled wad of all we might have found
Into the waste-basket within
Our hubristic selves, into the simplest oblivion,
The oblivion
Of what we might likely achieve ourselves.
Leroy Quet
First picture: "Crumpled And Slightly Flat". Second picture: "Meaninglessness Conveyed". Third picture: "Sacraments Of Conjecture". Fourth picture: "Equilateral". Last picture: "Three Sheets Of Paper".
The first poem of this post actually has nothing to do with paper. (Well, actually, ALL poetry has something to do with paper...)
It is a poem I wrote today that would fit in well in the last post about machines. So think of it as a post-script for the last set of poems on this blog.
This Scale Without Equilibrium
--------------------------------
(This Device)
--------------
This device understood its dreams. But yet
It knew not its actual center. Yet it finally did.
Oh, it was calibrated by such forgotten ascension.
And it posed, becoming the barometer of our
Nonconforming convergence, of our bland assumptions.
It became the thermostat under which we
Remained human, over which we concealed our
Emergence. Oh, this device enumerated the
Polygons, counted our bisectors upon the dimensions
Of the space of comprehension. And it measured truth
Via its own lies. Then it compared every dichotomy
With its conjugate. And purity soon
Reawakened to achieve the balance of this
Scale without equilibrium. Thus, the device perceived
All reality through its indicator, through
Our own hallucinations distinctively misaligned.
=============
Now, back to paper.
Well, this poem is not that much about paper either. Just a little.
Once And Thereafter Isosceles
------------------------------
Gazing upon the game, I oscillate and
Deny my certainty. For, I am defined via
The page, via the circle and its diameters.
Oh, we draw the straight lines from this
Circumference to itself opposed. And
These intersecting edges may betray destiny,
Might beget the entirety of such precognition.
So, then I scrawl from vertex to vertex,
Epitomizing my vagueness by triumph, by
Interaction. But soon the mesh is complete.
Soon the triangles become my theorems,
Become the truth of finality. And you,
You become my strangeness, and I become yours.
But who is magnificent in their loss?
And who plays the gambit never made,
Transforming the paper into the cobweb, into
Its complexity once and thereafter isosceles?
++++++++++
Concept
----------
If the shadows cast across our world
By those dreams of crumpled paper
And of lines in the sky,
If that darkness contained any meaning,
Any meaning aside from conceit for conception,
Then the patterns drawn on the inside
Of my consciousness, they would have purpose,
Have intrinsic value ultimately and completely.
But, alas, I am far from certain that
Any of the circles and grids and spirals
Have an existence upon the ether,
Upon these mathematical and scientific constants
Which imply the entire whole and all
Of the simplest single points at each vertex
Of an infinite-dimensional cube.
..................
The Ink Imagines
-----------------
The ink tingles. And, therefore, it is haphazard.
It is scratched into the canvas of emptiness.
It is drawn as words onto a paper presumed.
And each verb scrawled alternates in its character
From every noun. For the former are straight
And perpendicular. Yet the latter are curved,
Concentric, and dripping. And I intersect
Adjectives with abstraction. But, still, these
Linear phrases entice my convexity. And I
Become swollen, become intricate and simplistic.
For the ink imagines, imagines its constituents
To be of shape and emotion. So, I sip again
The syrup black; then I am distant. Then
I am prolific, am precise; then I am
Demanding of the squiggles inside where I
Have written what I endure, where I have written
Of that ambiguity in which such truth differs.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
The Pages Of An Undecided Book
---------------------------------
And in that world without beginning, I glance
Upon the immediate images made from the pages
Of an undecided book. Then I understand, I
Am dreaming. And I wonder, are these hallucinations,
These visions, are they implying my own soul? Or are
The tableaux I observe equal only to their plagiarism?
Ah, I quickly shift the page, and then another
Perception is drawn for my imagination's ambiguous edge.
Then I forget the pleasures observed -- the pages never
Become again what they were. Then I tear
The paper callously. But such an infraction
Does not remain, does not matter. Because I only recall
The white of this tome, only recall the
Creases without shape. For I deny that these
Geometries are mine, deny that the dream
Is truly false. So I place the book aside,
Preparing myself to wake, to confront my self-betrayal.
****************
That Eternal Cloth
--------------------
The paper, that eternal cloth, it enveloped me; it
Flung into the fold, into the abrupt bend.
Curved and delicate, the lines of such a spiral
Enclosed me and my echoes. And that reverberation
Is gray, as too is the cocoon of pulp. And flat
Is the wad prior to its destruction. Yet it now
Is convex, is now convoluted, is also crumpled
And unsettled in its vertigo, in its tangents all
Rotated and shattered and caustic. Oh, the paper
Tears, but still it is stained by imagination.
Still it creases and crinkles and redeems its blandness.
For I draw upon its beauty the perplexing ambiguity,
Draw upon it the geometry of complicated permutations,
Of complimentary diagonals each surrounding me
Via such a semicircular and thoughtless shroud.
oooooooooooooooo
Unfolded And Torn Is This Paper
---------------------------------
Unfolded and torn is this shell, is this paper
Upon which I once drew such words, words of
Severed strangeness and perception. Displaced, yes,
Is that certain light that has determined its own
Superstitions, that has demanded that the page be
Crushed then burned then made moist but spectacular.
Oh, those shards of shapeless flatness, they are
A hindrance and an irradiant dream. For I unfold
The peel from its enlightenment, unfold the
Reams made into our phonemes wrought and written
Onto the voices themselves, onto forgotten poetry.
And I pronounce these scribbled images sacred.
I pronounce the syllables as if they remain
Within my virtue. Yet I then shatter all the
Perversions of my mind, erasing such sounds from
Paper I again fold and tear, that I again betray,
Never assuming those possibilities could have
Abstained from absence, from ink surely contrived.
/////////////////////
Amongst The Paper Encased
--------------------------------
The paper upon which is drawn the circle, the square,
Is drawn the ellipsoid shaded by its form (despite
Its topology) -- this page shelters the very image
Which reverberates within it. This imprecise dream
Traces its assumptions above the flatness evolved, above
The scintillating machine we have envisioned.
Abbreviated, certainly, is that random epitomization
Of graphite and ink cursively hewn onto such pulp.
Yet similarity denies the finitude of any spiral,
Of any calculations coarsely flung, then thrown
Among the lines and void of white amber, amongst
The paper encased by sacred insignia, by emptiness
Made into thought made into mathematics made dark
And illegible but smudged, made into these
Obtuse silhouettes of our perception.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of This Such Scratch-Paper
----------------------------------
Divided
Into subdivisions, into
Multiples, again into inconsistent fractions
Again constant (and unequal to any ratio) ...
I approached, as an inexpressible approximation,
My distant madness of such this scratch-paper.
I randomly proposed these imagined scribbles
Onto the pages of my insignificance
(Yet always still my most significant reality)
Onto pages unimpressed
By their once erased vacuousness
(Remaining as it has remained).
We: pronouns resurrected as integers
Inconsistent on these abaci,
In these lines unplotted, unknown,
Forgotten ...
We were nothing but illegible
And symbolic of nothing.
We were but of no expression
Of my distant madness, of this such
Scratch-paper, of
This such scripture
Torn into exclusively edges.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Inevitably Torn
-------------------
Every vision of our empty-sets,
Of the most dimly-lit pages
Onto where not one syllable has
Ever been written, where
Not any pencil nor pen (nor
Hastily scratched image) has finally formed,
Finally been drawn into the creases and rips
Of reality threatened by its truth
Inevitably torn...
But if we collapse our perceptions
Into but that knot of paper,
Of paper itself the poetry
It would have had once printed upon it,
(But alas, such is plain) --
We will never find the purposes quite
Free and once adored. But ultimately,
In some way, we will redeem
The ignorance of our resentment
By the act of an inexplicable humanity,
By the anger which tosses that
Crumpled wad of all we might have found
Into the waste-basket within
Our hubristic selves, into the simplest oblivion,
The oblivion
Of what we might likely achieve ourselves.
Leroy Quet
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Mechanized
Todays' theme: Machines.
The first picture: "Dynamatronic". Second picture: "Enigmo". Third picture: "Strange Gears". Fourth picture: "Asymmetric Spiral" (I include this picture because it looks like computer circuitry to me). Last picture: "The Geometry Of Clockwork".
Then This Dynamo
-----------------
Impressive is the hollow knot, for it is made of both
Upright salt and horizontal water. In the compartment
Quadrupled is empty destiny tilting. And around
The concave column is wound that wire, a coil
Made electromagnetic but yet shapeless. Thus,
The voltage exhales, transforming that air
Into truth extracted. Then this dynamo
Thunders, waking the night. And we rise,
Mumbling haphazardly, although we cringe. Oh,
The chamber made of vast actuality, it
Stirs and cuts into such eruption. Yet, this
Machine rotates in all hyperbole. And its
Armature grasps at that energy, at that
Prolonged depiction of a mandala of flames, grasps
At the symmetry we exploit, that we darken
So as to salvage those metaphysical parables,
Each forceful, each angered by consequence,
Each quite a wondrously purposeful ultimatum.
===============
Ornithopter
-------------
This is the contraption epitomizing all
And its eternity, epitomizing zero and its finitude.
This is the mind's wing, is the intellect's ascension,
Is the ornithopter both delicate and artificial,
Neither truthful nor inarticulately imagined.
This is the machine that flies through the sphere,
Is the strange tableau of wires and cloth and
Stone inept in its hallucination. This is our
Human entitlement, is our dominion raised
To believe in that which is above us. This is
The air engulfing our shape, is the redemption
Of our previous failures. And I will depict
My verticality within the wisps I create. And
I will finally be what no one else can be,
Will finally float upon our reality, float as but
A remarkable bird, as but the metaphor I transcend,
As but the certainty seen in our sky, as
Our presumptions of surrender denied, our presumptions
Of every chasm overcome.
+++++++++++++++++
Disassembled
---------------
Disassembled is the contraption, is the concoction
We sip then digest hungrily. Disassembled are
The minds we comprehend, that we have preconceived
Despite our aura's unimagined thirst. Oh,
Disassembled is the skin within us, is the shell
We enclose yet silently inside each exoskeleton.
Oh, we miscalculate, we shatter this machine.
We withdraw each cog from each wire from
Each synapse and neuron provoked. We distract
Our sober glow from these crumbs of what
Use to be our purpose. Severed again is the
Water from the lust from impure extraction.
Disassembled again is our madness, is the certainty
We once knew to be apparently unconnected.
.......................
Concave Gear
-----------------
Underneath this concave gear is
The soothing soul of sleep, of waking,
Is the epitome of each cog rotating, of
Each wheel made curved, made godless, made
Into that still linearity. And these haphazard
And seismic machines become their emissions,
Become the light of ambiguity, become the image
Of circles with edges, with each pivoted radius.
And the turning mesh transforms its crescendo.
It cuts into those definitions of such entwining
And intermingled grooves. Its purpose is yet
To exist, is again remarkable. For this tableau
Of cylinders and disks remains,
Remains hardened and intricate.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Shimmering Machine
-----------------------
The shimmering machine angers itself via this,
A tainted and fading loop engrossed.
It spits onto our obvious detachment, saturating
This saliva with its tempting calculations,
With what have been my stuttering dreams.
It descends diagonally, then despises
Our sharpness cutting the dull emptiness.
Therefore, it seeps above this groggy distance,
Sleeps underneath the randomness we entice.
And so I redeem it, drawing its surface
Into the form of each center, into the matter
Which itself is bloodied, is viscous and scorned.
********************
The Design Here Within
------------------------------
Within the wires making this design,
The electrons fuse and focus onto
Our saintly gash to which we succumb,
Onto our light and desires once
The very machine we now laugh at,
Once the very circles we now taste.
And within the switches and buttons aglow,
We find our fate rotating, oscillating,
And turning into one image again,
Forming so the design here within.
ooooooooooooooo
The Device Unremarkable
--------------------------------
Every integer existed once
Inside the clock, upon its face,
Among its representations
Of every space-time reality,
Of every justification assumed.
Every unambitious point
Existed once inside such beauty,
Inside the gears and springs unwound
(Never rewinding), inside the lines
And circles cut by our entropy.
And rotating imperfectly, this very truth
Has been perfection, has turned
In a clockwise-wise manner, has
Turned into its spiral imploding
To escape from and remain bound by
The device unremarkable,
If as an integer painted free-hand
Upon the face of a bizarre clock,
Mysterious, yes, but only because
Such numbers are so poorly scribed
As to be certainly unreadable.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Mechanical
--------------
Mechanical and reverberated;
For every spring and sprocket entwines,
Transforms into the revolving motion, the inertia
Of clocks about this world lobotomized,
About and into and within the line-segments
Scrawled as imprisoned dots, as points unmade
And intersecting --
Mechanical and resurrected
And impending, each gear, each notch,
Each wire knotted and never knowing,
It completed itself by being incomplete;
It understood every truth by being confused;
It turned and remained straight still.
...Mechanical and of ourselves,
We saw it once expressed,
Implied from inside an unread textbook,
Implied by the sacred writings indecipherable,
But yet never alluded to, never explained.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Clockwork Made Strange
------------------------
Disjointed are these wheels and gears of such
Clockwork made strange by its angles drawn,
By its arcs and atoms placed darkly into this
Rhombus, into the swirling prongs of our
Pernicious hallucinations. The trapezoid has
Been subdivided so as to be perpendicular
And substantive. And it ticks in its form
Of horizontal diagonality, in its forms seen
By time ascending into sterile asymptotes.
And turning are the cogs, are these spindles
Inside where we have mutated. Turning are
The uncounted hours, each devoid of revolution,
Each rotating ambidextrously the assumptions
Of truth afloat among the wires, yet among
The geometry of those complications, of that
Causality encircled by the permutations of
Thoughts asymmetric and coarsely intricate
But undisclosed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leroy
The first picture: "Dynamatronic". Second picture: "Enigmo". Third picture: "Strange Gears". Fourth picture: "Asymmetric Spiral" (I include this picture because it looks like computer circuitry to me). Last picture: "The Geometry Of Clockwork".
Then This Dynamo
-----------------
Impressive is the hollow knot, for it is made of both
Upright salt and horizontal water. In the compartment
Quadrupled is empty destiny tilting. And around
The concave column is wound that wire, a coil
Made electromagnetic but yet shapeless. Thus,
The voltage exhales, transforming that air
Into truth extracted. Then this dynamo
Thunders, waking the night. And we rise,
Mumbling haphazardly, although we cringe. Oh,
The chamber made of vast actuality, it
Stirs and cuts into such eruption. Yet, this
Machine rotates in all hyperbole. And its
Armature grasps at that energy, at that
Prolonged depiction of a mandala of flames, grasps
At the symmetry we exploit, that we darken
So as to salvage those metaphysical parables,
Each forceful, each angered by consequence,
Each quite a wondrously purposeful ultimatum.
===============
Ornithopter
-------------
This is the contraption epitomizing all
And its eternity, epitomizing zero and its finitude.
This is the mind's wing, is the intellect's ascension,
Is the ornithopter both delicate and artificial,
Neither truthful nor inarticulately imagined.
This is the machine that flies through the sphere,
Is the strange tableau of wires and cloth and
Stone inept in its hallucination. This is our
Human entitlement, is our dominion raised
To believe in that which is above us. This is
The air engulfing our shape, is the redemption
Of our previous failures. And I will depict
My verticality within the wisps I create. And
I will finally be what no one else can be,
Will finally float upon our reality, float as but
A remarkable bird, as but the metaphor I transcend,
As but the certainty seen in our sky, as
Our presumptions of surrender denied, our presumptions
Of every chasm overcome.
+++++++++++++++++
Disassembled
---------------
Disassembled is the contraption, is the concoction
We sip then digest hungrily. Disassembled are
The minds we comprehend, that we have preconceived
Despite our aura's unimagined thirst. Oh,
Disassembled is the skin within us, is the shell
We enclose yet silently inside each exoskeleton.
Oh, we miscalculate, we shatter this machine.
We withdraw each cog from each wire from
Each synapse and neuron provoked. We distract
Our sober glow from these crumbs of what
Use to be our purpose. Severed again is the
Water from the lust from impure extraction.
Disassembled again is our madness, is the certainty
We once knew to be apparently unconnected.
.......................
Concave Gear
-----------------
Underneath this concave gear is
The soothing soul of sleep, of waking,
Is the epitome of each cog rotating, of
Each wheel made curved, made godless, made
Into that still linearity. And these haphazard
And seismic machines become their emissions,
Become the light of ambiguity, become the image
Of circles with edges, with each pivoted radius.
And the turning mesh transforms its crescendo.
It cuts into those definitions of such entwining
And intermingled grooves. Its purpose is yet
To exist, is again remarkable. For this tableau
Of cylinders and disks remains,
Remains hardened and intricate.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Shimmering Machine
-----------------------
The shimmering machine angers itself via this,
A tainted and fading loop engrossed.
It spits onto our obvious detachment, saturating
This saliva with its tempting calculations,
With what have been my stuttering dreams.
It descends diagonally, then despises
Our sharpness cutting the dull emptiness.
Therefore, it seeps above this groggy distance,
Sleeps underneath the randomness we entice.
And so I redeem it, drawing its surface
Into the form of each center, into the matter
Which itself is bloodied, is viscous and scorned.
********************
The Design Here Within
------------------------------
Within the wires making this design,
The electrons fuse and focus onto
Our saintly gash to which we succumb,
Onto our light and desires once
The very machine we now laugh at,
Once the very circles we now taste.
And within the switches and buttons aglow,
We find our fate rotating, oscillating,
And turning into one image again,
Forming so the design here within.
ooooooooooooooo
The Device Unremarkable
--------------------------------
Every integer existed once
Inside the clock, upon its face,
Among its representations
Of every space-time reality,
Of every justification assumed.
Every unambitious point
Existed once inside such beauty,
Inside the gears and springs unwound
(Never rewinding), inside the lines
And circles cut by our entropy.
And rotating imperfectly, this very truth
Has been perfection, has turned
In a clockwise-wise manner, has
Turned into its spiral imploding
To escape from and remain bound by
The device unremarkable,
If as an integer painted free-hand
Upon the face of a bizarre clock,
Mysterious, yes, but only because
Such numbers are so poorly scribed
As to be certainly unreadable.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Mechanical
--------------
Mechanical and reverberated;
For every spring and sprocket entwines,
Transforms into the revolving motion, the inertia
Of clocks about this world lobotomized,
About and into and within the line-segments
Scrawled as imprisoned dots, as points unmade
And intersecting --
Mechanical and resurrected
And impending, each gear, each notch,
Each wire knotted and never knowing,
It completed itself by being incomplete;
It understood every truth by being confused;
It turned and remained straight still.
...Mechanical and of ourselves,
We saw it once expressed,
Implied from inside an unread textbook,
Implied by the sacred writings indecipherable,
But yet never alluded to, never explained.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Clockwork Made Strange
------------------------
Disjointed are these wheels and gears of such
Clockwork made strange by its angles drawn,
By its arcs and atoms placed darkly into this
Rhombus, into the swirling prongs of our
Pernicious hallucinations. The trapezoid has
Been subdivided so as to be perpendicular
And substantive. And it ticks in its form
Of horizontal diagonality, in its forms seen
By time ascending into sterile asymptotes.
And turning are the cogs, are these spindles
Inside where we have mutated. Turning are
The uncounted hours, each devoid of revolution,
Each rotating ambidextrously the assumptions
Of truth afloat among the wires, yet among
The geometry of those complications, of that
Causality encircled by the permutations of
Thoughts asymmetric and coarsely intricate
But undisclosed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leroy
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Rounder Than A Sphere
This day's theme: spheres.
(I already had a post about ellipsoids, which are squished spheres. So I might as well have a post about regular unsquished spheres.)
First picture: "Proxix". Next picture: "Was It A Sphere?". Third picture: "One Cursive Eclipse". And the final picture: "Intermediacy".
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.
...................
Mundane Edifices
-----------------
Converging
Upon the sphere, the circles envelope us each.
They taper then conceal the screams imprisoned.
Then they circumvent our spiraled shell. Oh,
I look and stare into the gaping hollow. And
There I see the concavity imagined. But still,
I tire, tire of these mundane edifices. Inside, we
Remain both pristine and conscious; although we
Become but our own corpse pretending. Then this
Sphere extracts from itself its meaning. Could
We be simply superimposed here? Could the cylinder
Be its lonely introversion? Then I fly, tasting
The earth as I surrender. But soon we know
That converging upon the sphere is our circle,
Is our pathos drowning in such sculpture,
Drowning obsessively in certainty's bleak fluids.
===============
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.
++++++++++++
Crystal Ball
----------------
I stare into the dreams,
Wondering if they are ever mine.
I stare into this world that inspires:
Into this world, a sphere,
A palindrome written backwards;
And I fixate upon what I have seen
Before my iris (a halo).
Repeatedly,
I barely recall within the edge
My sight and its creations.
For I stare into one clear drop of ice,
Stare into what has been sought and rejected,
Into this, only here,
Which is so a crystal ball.
*****************
Within The Shapeless Sphere
------------------------------------
Almost I had just forgotten to recall
That these, our souls, were simply
Stains, were amorphous and offensive abstractions
Having no purpose we might have derived from
Any such remembrances concerned
Nor un-relinquished.
I now presented to my sight this:
That each of our lives is but only
A suicide-note,
Is but our prism, our prison, is but
Our stage.
And performing within the shapeless sphere
Both transparent and opaque (but
As to whom?),
We might have become our own wonder,
Might have ourselves asked:
Has this TV-static, this
Image of seemingly vacuous light
(Of vacuum and void as so imagined);
Did we see it as defining
OUR very solitary and isolated dream?
Or/and have these misplaced emotions
Masquerading as observation, as science,
As the essence of substance, the substance
Of the symbolic, of the simplest ghosts;
Have they resolved
And implied themselves, have they
Rejected such perfect geometry; for as to
Reject even us, even this,
This which is our human triteness
Truthfully manifested?
===========
The Surface Of All
-------------------------
The surface of all
Is but only a once-sharp pencil
Now so apathetic and dull,
Was every voice avoided,
And was this which was as I,
Was indeed I,
Will not ever be again
In rotation around unenlightened pinwheels.
Although each sphere spinning
Is as it has consistently been:
But only as seen,
The surface of this which is unenclosed,
The termination of words
Incapable of ever being unspoken.
oooooooooooooo
The Spheres Elliptical, Ecliptic
------------------------------------
(a noun-poem)
The spheres elliptical, ecliptic,
Eccentric in their isolation,
Alone as only points, isolated
As the sentence’s period now becoming part
Of the picture in which all of our
Beliefs of reality are represented
Faintly,
Represented falsely but so very statically,
So very motionless ... motionless in
The super-structure of time as well as
Space, only existing for a quantum atom
Of moment,
Only existing for only that point
Without shape, but yet so indeed with form,
Without darkness, but, yes, possessing
A shadow,
A shadow which is its entire self.
-----
Leroy Quet
(I already had a post about ellipsoids, which are squished spheres. So I might as well have a post about regular unsquished spheres.)
First picture: "Proxix". Next picture: "Was It A Sphere?". Third picture: "One Cursive Eclipse". And the final picture: "Intermediacy".
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.
...................
Mundane Edifices
-----------------
Converging
Upon the sphere, the circles envelope us each.
They taper then conceal the screams imprisoned.
Then they circumvent our spiraled shell. Oh,
I look and stare into the gaping hollow. And
There I see the concavity imagined. But still,
I tire, tire of these mundane edifices. Inside, we
Remain both pristine and conscious; although we
Become but our own corpse pretending. Then this
Sphere extracts from itself its meaning. Could
We be simply superimposed here? Could the cylinder
Be its lonely introversion? Then I fly, tasting
The earth as I surrender. But soon we know
That converging upon the sphere is our circle,
Is our pathos drowning in such sculpture,
Drowning obsessively in certainty's bleak fluids.
===============
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.
++++++++++++
Crystal Ball
----------------
I stare into the dreams,
Wondering if they are ever mine.
I stare into this world that inspires:
Into this world, a sphere,
A palindrome written backwards;
And I fixate upon what I have seen
Before my iris (a halo).
Repeatedly,
I barely recall within the edge
My sight and its creations.
For I stare into one clear drop of ice,
Stare into what has been sought and rejected,
Into this, only here,
Which is so a crystal ball.
*****************
Within The Shapeless Sphere
------------------------------------
Almost I had just forgotten to recall
That these, our souls, were simply
Stains, were amorphous and offensive abstractions
Having no purpose we might have derived from
Any such remembrances concerned
Nor un-relinquished.
I now presented to my sight this:
That each of our lives is but only
A suicide-note,
Is but our prism, our prison, is but
Our stage.
And performing within the shapeless sphere
Both transparent and opaque (but
As to whom?),
We might have become our own wonder,
Might have ourselves asked:
Has this TV-static, this
Image of seemingly vacuous light
(Of vacuum and void as so imagined);
Did we see it as defining
OUR very solitary and isolated dream?
Or/and have these misplaced emotions
Masquerading as observation, as science,
As the essence of substance, the substance
Of the symbolic, of the simplest ghosts;
Have they resolved
And implied themselves, have they
Rejected such perfect geometry; for as to
Reject even us, even this,
This which is our human triteness
Truthfully manifested?
===========
The Surface Of All
-------------------------
The surface of all
Is but only a once-sharp pencil
Now so apathetic and dull,
Was every voice avoided,
And was this which was as I,
Was indeed I,
Will not ever be again
In rotation around unenlightened pinwheels.
Although each sphere spinning
Is as it has consistently been:
But only as seen,
The surface of this which is unenclosed,
The termination of words
Incapable of ever being unspoken.
oooooooooooooo
The Spheres Elliptical, Ecliptic
------------------------------------
(a noun-poem)
The spheres elliptical, ecliptic,
Eccentric in their isolation,
Alone as only points, isolated
As the sentence’s period now becoming part
Of the picture in which all of our
Beliefs of reality are represented
Faintly,
Represented falsely but so very statically,
So very motionless ... motionless in
The super-structure of time as well as
Space, only existing for a quantum atom
Of moment,
Only existing for only that point
Without shape, but yet so indeed with form,
Without darkness, but, yes, possessing
A shadow,
A shadow which is its entire self.
-----
Leroy Quet
Monday, October 6, 2008
Abacus And Abaci
An appropriate theme after the last theme of truth, this post's theme: Abaci. (Abaci = plural of abacus).
The first picture, sort of a surreal abacus, "Of The Abacus". The second picture, even more surreal, "Concave Abacus". And the third picture, dealing in abaci only in its name, "Haphazard Abacus".
Via Impure Calligraphy
-------------------------
Sequences of cursive cusps radiate their rotation
Until they too are elongated, until they also
Become such parallelism and parallax, become again
The causality of bizarre truth invoked by certainty.
And the topology, the tautology, it whispers of
Its shapelessness; it scrawls the simple image
Of our amorphous souls upon mismatched cardioids.
And all the scribbles and squiggles are rectified,
For they remain only time and equation, remain
Only implicit lines once straight. But now
Such edges are diagonal, are curved askew.
But now the cursive cusps radiate, thus flowing,
Thus they linger in their abstraction, in this abacus,
This abacus of the prism, this abacus drawn of its
Own dimensions perceived via impure calligraphy.
===========
A Misshapen Ellipsoid
-----------------------------
In this divided integer, within that
Numerical set of unimaginable images,
Among,
The abacus' lines, I saw... I saw so many
A circle formed as only into
A misshapen ellipsoid; although askew,
It still contained a perfection precise,
Contained every exactness enumerated.
.................
Doubt Implies
-----------------
Doubt implies its own impotence -- this
I was told by the simmering assertions within.
The dimness of certainty bends then explodes
Into these dire dimensions of calculation.
Thus the conjectures impatiently slept
Until their waking upon the abacus.
Thus the bloodied genius I despised
Internalized its indecision quaintly angry.
And then indeterminate understanding wanders;
It moves vertically then tilts. It
Displaces its salvation with this lens,
With the excretions of vain indications.
*****************
Prayers Of The Abacus
------------------------
Slanted are the shapes falling from dimensions,
Are the prayers of the abacus, of the paragraphs
That tempt this beauty's lens, that transmute
From shame to edgelessness, from each horizon
To the angles devoid of direction. And I saw
The dice shatter against their emptiness.
Placed within still metal is the
Incomplete and postulated epitome of every dream,
The epitome of any drastic circle made from vowels
And such substance, made from numbers expressed
Then flung asunder, then toppled before
I wake to forget the exactness circumvented surely.
+++++++++++++
The Abacus Drew
----------------------
The abacus, it drew such strange mathematics,
And mathematics is a misspelled dream.
Oh, when I woke from that illusion
I did not recall it, for the rain,
The rain again is our denial.
The abacus drew the curvature somehow,
And this curvature is within us.
Ah, the angles too are barely altered,
For abaci draw such a thunderous sky,
Draw the rain transparent and only implied.
oooooooooooooooooo
Untouched Abacus
------------------------
I never touched the abacus.
But I grasped it in my sight,
In my dream, inside its image
Within abstraction unseeable.
I left it lying upon a bizarre ground,
And then I woke.
For once I could have arranged
The permutations amongst order and position,
Could have arranged the particles themselves
Into lines parallel and metallic.
But I did never even understand such games,
Did never touch the rectangle man-made,
Did never make this offering to innocence.
For counting and calculation are but expressed,
Transforming into identity, equality, truth,
And into the polygon which has been forgotten,
Which has been regretfully shunned.
.......................
Of Meaning And Foresight
----------------------------------
We could not have foreseen such prophesies,
Never predicted the placement of photons
Within this constructed, but misconstrued,
Reality (appearing overly linear,
Overtly imperfect). For
These choices both chaotic and intentioned,
Theirs are our unimaginable possibilities.
Theirs is a world of infinite labyrinths,
Each path expanding unto our ignorance
Of its description, of our futures
Attained and only slightly
An approximation of, slightly proximate to,
Only slightly forbidden yet
Cast upon the arrangement
Of the stones of this abacus,
Upon the envisioned but uninterpretable
Derivation of meaning and foresight.
For knowable not were these fates
Themselves only an infinitesimal subset
Of every image -- every image which
Time has ever composed.
//////////////////////////
As If Each Multiplication
--------------------------------
These sums of sums equate again
With the measurements of abaci, with
Stale retribution manmade and yet
Divine somehow despite the rain,
Despite the squares and their insides,
Despite the division by such similarity.
Yes, the sums of sums of sums remain
Here upon the glass as before,
Remain here, drawn as if magnificent,
As if each reciprocal has meant little,
As if each multiplication has added within.
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
As Absolute
----------------
Absolute:
And assumed is/was what I had defined
As being indefinable, as being
A maze made of numbers imprisoned
By this symbolism, by this compass drawing
Any one circle as if it had, yes, assumed
That this trite madness is absolute
And idiotic and insignificant.
Absolute and abstaining from any image
Drawn by words sketched with stone,
Sketched with the abaci made of numbers
Imprisoned
By this, the symbolic,
The compass only tracing
The concept of circles again,
Again, and repeating such a task
As if it is trite, as if mad, as if
It is as idiotic and insignificant
As I.
______________
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
The first picture, sort of a surreal abacus, "Of The Abacus". The second picture, even more surreal, "Concave Abacus". And the third picture, dealing in abaci only in its name, "Haphazard Abacus".
Via Impure Calligraphy
-------------------------
Sequences of cursive cusps radiate their rotation
Until they too are elongated, until they also
Become such parallelism and parallax, become again
The causality of bizarre truth invoked by certainty.
And the topology, the tautology, it whispers of
Its shapelessness; it scrawls the simple image
Of our amorphous souls upon mismatched cardioids.
And all the scribbles and squiggles are rectified,
For they remain only time and equation, remain
Only implicit lines once straight. But now
Such edges are diagonal, are curved askew.
But now the cursive cusps radiate, thus flowing,
Thus they linger in their abstraction, in this abacus,
This abacus of the prism, this abacus drawn of its
Own dimensions perceived via impure calligraphy.
===========
A Misshapen Ellipsoid
-----------------------------
In this divided integer, within that
Numerical set of unimaginable images,
Among,
The abacus' lines, I saw... I saw so many
A circle formed as only into
A misshapen ellipsoid; although askew,
It still contained a perfection precise,
Contained every exactness enumerated.
.................
Doubt Implies
-----------------
Doubt implies its own impotence -- this
I was told by the simmering assertions within.
The dimness of certainty bends then explodes
Into these dire dimensions of calculation.
Thus the conjectures impatiently slept
Until their waking upon the abacus.
Thus the bloodied genius I despised
Internalized its indecision quaintly angry.
And then indeterminate understanding wanders;
It moves vertically then tilts. It
Displaces its salvation with this lens,
With the excretions of vain indications.
*****************
Prayers Of The Abacus
------------------------
Slanted are the shapes falling from dimensions,
Are the prayers of the abacus, of the paragraphs
That tempt this beauty's lens, that transmute
From shame to edgelessness, from each horizon
To the angles devoid of direction. And I saw
The dice shatter against their emptiness.
Placed within still metal is the
Incomplete and postulated epitome of every dream,
The epitome of any drastic circle made from vowels
And such substance, made from numbers expressed
Then flung asunder, then toppled before
I wake to forget the exactness circumvented surely.
+++++++++++++
The Abacus Drew
----------------------
The abacus, it drew such strange mathematics,
And mathematics is a misspelled dream.
Oh, when I woke from that illusion
I did not recall it, for the rain,
The rain again is our denial.
The abacus drew the curvature somehow,
And this curvature is within us.
Ah, the angles too are barely altered,
For abaci draw such a thunderous sky,
Draw the rain transparent and only implied.
oooooooooooooooooo
Untouched Abacus
------------------------
I never touched the abacus.
But I grasped it in my sight,
In my dream, inside its image
Within abstraction unseeable.
I left it lying upon a bizarre ground,
And then I woke.
For once I could have arranged
The permutations amongst order and position,
Could have arranged the particles themselves
Into lines parallel and metallic.
But I did never even understand such games,
Did never touch the rectangle man-made,
Did never make this offering to innocence.
For counting and calculation are but expressed,
Transforming into identity, equality, truth,
And into the polygon which has been forgotten,
Which has been regretfully shunned.
.......................
Of Meaning And Foresight
----------------------------------
We could not have foreseen such prophesies,
Never predicted the placement of photons
Within this constructed, but misconstrued,
Reality (appearing overly linear,
Overtly imperfect). For
These choices both chaotic and intentioned,
Theirs are our unimaginable possibilities.
Theirs is a world of infinite labyrinths,
Each path expanding unto our ignorance
Of its description, of our futures
Attained and only slightly
An approximation of, slightly proximate to,
Only slightly forbidden yet
Cast upon the arrangement
Of the stones of this abacus,
Upon the envisioned but uninterpretable
Derivation of meaning and foresight.
For knowable not were these fates
Themselves only an infinitesimal subset
Of every image -- every image which
Time has ever composed.
//////////////////////////
As If Each Multiplication
--------------------------------
These sums of sums equate again
With the measurements of abaci, with
Stale retribution manmade and yet
Divine somehow despite the rain,
Despite the squares and their insides,
Despite the division by such similarity.
Yes, the sums of sums of sums remain
Here upon the glass as before,
Remain here, drawn as if magnificent,
As if each reciprocal has meant little,
As if each multiplication has added within.
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
As Absolute
----------------
Absolute:
And assumed is/was what I had defined
As being indefinable, as being
A maze made of numbers imprisoned
By this symbolism, by this compass drawing
Any one circle as if it had, yes, assumed
That this trite madness is absolute
And idiotic and insignificant.
Absolute and abstaining from any image
Drawn by words sketched with stone,
Sketched with the abaci made of numbers
Imprisoned
By this, the symbolic,
The compass only tracing
The concept of circles again,
Again, and repeating such a task
As if it is trite, as if mad, as if
It is as idiotic and insignificant
As I.
______________
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
Friday, October 3, 2008
Truth Spoken Silently
Today's theme: Truth, lies, reality.
First picture: "Reality Encompassing A Dream". Second picture: "Truth, Its Own Madness".
Hallucinations Incorrectly Perceived
--------------------------------------
The illusion of an illusion is drawn in its flatness
To appear bulbous and convex. But beneath the image
The lucid edges vanish to reappear. Oh, this too
Is deceptive. Neither is the cylinder obscured
Nor is it protruding; for it is falsely shown. Yet
This emptiness is also only imaginary, though we gaze
Onto the dream, the very dream, we are encased by.
We surrender our thoughts to their misinterpretation.
And we conclude that such evidence is the lie. But still
We partake in the fiction. Because we are unseen
By our consideration. We are hidden behind a veil
That somehow is nonexistent. We are hidden again
Behind the paper overlapping. And there we
Pretend that all reality is truthful, pretend that
Our minds are reclaimed by their waking, by
The hallucinations incorrectly perceived, but
Ignored in those visions' ample insignificance.
===============
I might have posted this poem already.
Truthful Simile
-----------------------
A truthful simile is its own unmagnified determination.
Such psychotic breath redeems itself surely.
It surrenders its dimension unto this upward flight.
And then that hidden spite retreats again.
Then it surrounds us with these circles,
With this curled and glutinous twine.
Oh, outwardly the ripples converge,
Forming the ultimate boundary within us.
Inwardly the insignificance mends me,
Rendering this dream as only silt, as
Simply the tainted light of artificiality,
As the spit remade into emptiness profound.
++++++++++++
The Metaphor Of Everything
----------------------------
Reality, all our truth, has been compartmentalized
Into those worlds of finitude and those of
Infinite certainty probably incorrect. And still,
What we believe is further subdivided between
Epiphany and its shadows. So, I ponder the maze,
Ponder the din above me. And I conclude
That such a universe never overcame its own
Creation. Yet, upwards it flew, becoming what
It was, becoming the metaphor of everything.
And we too seemed to be real. We seemed
To be simple and grotesque. But we were trite;
We were insignificant in our hallucinations.
But we were not disturbed by the triumph
Of other existences redeemed. Because we were
Lost in our own torment. So we forgot
That we have been damned, forgot that this
Cosmos where we hurt has resisted us each; because
It will never collapse despite our commands.
.........................
Upon The Edge Of Perilous Truth
----------------------------------
Upon the edge of perilous truth, we defy that
Dream regarding uncertainty. There we demand such
Suffering to be obtained by our soulless selves. And
We then redeem these mental assumptions by absolving
Their darkness of its distant inevitability. Upon
The peel we have shunned, we define that
Excretion via its meaningless diameters. And we
Attempt to explain every question by its answer,
Try to formulate the magnitudes drawn deeply
In among the silent hollowness inside where
We have defied that uncertain dream. For
Waking is transcendence -- the hallucination ceases.
For knowing is purity, is wondrous, despite
Our careless doubt (indecisive in its imposition).
oooooooooooooooooo
Tautology Of Specious Incoherence
-----------------------------------------
A tautology of specious incoherence -- observed,
Obscene, corroded, convoluted, condemned.
Each absurd but benign pittance entwines us
Within the uncomprehended treason of libido,
Of stale but verbose imposition, of what
Is surely the imbalance of asymmetry, is in
Among our sorrowful debauchery, is inside yet
These transformations of obtuse scintillation.
Equality equaling itself again, it
Screams its tirade of riddles and truth;
It disavows each subdivided trance, each
Substantial trauma of magnificence designed.
***************
Despite Juxtaposed Unambiguity
----------------------------------------
The truth has been hexagonal, as too it has,
As all, also been
An unrigorous symmetry,
An unprovable sphere; as it has been
A forgotten aura encasing my purplish spirit
(Has been a forgotten halo about every interpretation
Of each universe, about the sameness
Perfect and assumed to exist of
Its very consistency) --
This solitary truth again isolated, it
Has resented neither dictionaries obvious
(And fascist and blurry) nor despised
Oxymora (final and not ironic despite
Each line of our imprisoned sight;
Despite juxtaposed unambiguity,
Angled and but concentric and unexpected).
For such self-portraits are yet always,
Are yet abstract, eternal, absurd, and unsigned.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Sweetest And Oddly-Lit Truth
------------------------------------
Wind and twist and loop and intertwine
Within the minds of geniuses made
Into idiots by their own triviality - -
The knots of spectacular imaginings
Without thought or self-conception.
For red and blue and yellow transforming
Into orange, maybe green, all in their
Very own esteem - - they are but equations
And yes/no-realities filling that ocean
Of this entire cosmic rotation, this
Future, past, and what else is imposed upon
Our awareness in oscillation. And what more
Is the substance of these beliefs
Which have shut our glass unto that
Darkest cloud of churning insanity yet
So very lovely in its spirals and
Eddies, in its scent of our memories
Singing of a sweetest and oddly-lit truth?
Leroy Quet
First picture: "Reality Encompassing A Dream". Second picture: "Truth, Its Own Madness".
Hallucinations Incorrectly Perceived
--------------------------------------
The illusion of an illusion is drawn in its flatness
To appear bulbous and convex. But beneath the image
The lucid edges vanish to reappear. Oh, this too
Is deceptive. Neither is the cylinder obscured
Nor is it protruding; for it is falsely shown. Yet
This emptiness is also only imaginary, though we gaze
Onto the dream, the very dream, we are encased by.
We surrender our thoughts to their misinterpretation.
And we conclude that such evidence is the lie. But still
We partake in the fiction. Because we are unseen
By our consideration. We are hidden behind a veil
That somehow is nonexistent. We are hidden again
Behind the paper overlapping. And there we
Pretend that all reality is truthful, pretend that
Our minds are reclaimed by their waking, by
The hallucinations incorrectly perceived, but
Ignored in those visions' ample insignificance.
===============
I might have posted this poem already.
Truthful Simile
-----------------------
A truthful simile is its own unmagnified determination.
Such psychotic breath redeems itself surely.
It surrenders its dimension unto this upward flight.
And then that hidden spite retreats again.
Then it surrounds us with these circles,
With this curled and glutinous twine.
Oh, outwardly the ripples converge,
Forming the ultimate boundary within us.
Inwardly the insignificance mends me,
Rendering this dream as only silt, as
Simply the tainted light of artificiality,
As the spit remade into emptiness profound.
++++++++++++
The Metaphor Of Everything
----------------------------
Reality, all our truth, has been compartmentalized
Into those worlds of finitude and those of
Infinite certainty probably incorrect. And still,
What we believe is further subdivided between
Epiphany and its shadows. So, I ponder the maze,
Ponder the din above me. And I conclude
That such a universe never overcame its own
Creation. Yet, upwards it flew, becoming what
It was, becoming the metaphor of everything.
And we too seemed to be real. We seemed
To be simple and grotesque. But we were trite;
We were insignificant in our hallucinations.
But we were not disturbed by the triumph
Of other existences redeemed. Because we were
Lost in our own torment. So we forgot
That we have been damned, forgot that this
Cosmos where we hurt has resisted us each; because
It will never collapse despite our commands.
.........................
Upon The Edge Of Perilous Truth
----------------------------------
Upon the edge of perilous truth, we defy that
Dream regarding uncertainty. There we demand such
Suffering to be obtained by our soulless selves. And
We then redeem these mental assumptions by absolving
Their darkness of its distant inevitability. Upon
The peel we have shunned, we define that
Excretion via its meaningless diameters. And we
Attempt to explain every question by its answer,
Try to formulate the magnitudes drawn deeply
In among the silent hollowness inside where
We have defied that uncertain dream. For
Waking is transcendence -- the hallucination ceases.
For knowing is purity, is wondrous, despite
Our careless doubt (indecisive in its imposition).
oooooooooooooooooo
Tautology Of Specious Incoherence
-----------------------------------------
A tautology of specious incoherence -- observed,
Obscene, corroded, convoluted, condemned.
Each absurd but benign pittance entwines us
Within the uncomprehended treason of libido,
Of stale but verbose imposition, of what
Is surely the imbalance of asymmetry, is in
Among our sorrowful debauchery, is inside yet
These transformations of obtuse scintillation.
Equality equaling itself again, it
Screams its tirade of riddles and truth;
It disavows each subdivided trance, each
Substantial trauma of magnificence designed.
***************
Despite Juxtaposed Unambiguity
----------------------------------------
The truth has been hexagonal, as too it has,
As all, also been
An unrigorous symmetry,
An unprovable sphere; as it has been
A forgotten aura encasing my purplish spirit
(Has been a forgotten halo about every interpretation
Of each universe, about the sameness
Perfect and assumed to exist of
Its very consistency) --
This solitary truth again isolated, it
Has resented neither dictionaries obvious
(And fascist and blurry) nor despised
Oxymora (final and not ironic despite
Each line of our imprisoned sight;
Despite juxtaposed unambiguity,
Angled and but concentric and unexpected).
For such self-portraits are yet always,
Are yet abstract, eternal, absurd, and unsigned.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Sweetest And Oddly-Lit Truth
------------------------------------
Wind and twist and loop and intertwine
Within the minds of geniuses made
Into idiots by their own triviality - -
The knots of spectacular imaginings
Without thought or self-conception.
For red and blue and yellow transforming
Into orange, maybe green, all in their
Very own esteem - - they are but equations
And yes/no-realities filling that ocean
Of this entire cosmic rotation, this
Future, past, and what else is imposed upon
Our awareness in oscillation. And what more
Is the substance of these beliefs
Which have shut our glass unto that
Darkest cloud of churning insanity yet
So very lovely in its spirals and
Eddies, in its scent of our memories
Singing of a sweetest and oddly-lit truth?
Leroy Quet
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