Our Personal Ascent

Today I post poetry about flying.

No pictures, just poetry.

(I could have included the first poem in my last blog-post about thorns under this topic.)

--

Tangential Wings
------------------

Tangential wings; these gusts above us become
Our earthen wind; they descend. And those
Wings are seemingly aloft, as is all reality.
And perpendicular, parallel, are the thermals
That behold our flight. For, we rise again
Unto our dreams once dying. We rise to be
But actual in the shadowbox. We rise
To be but embalmed by such perfume. Oh,
We fly within our surrender. We grasp
The strange equilibrium underneath us. And
Upwards, those tangents and wings are made,
As we convert the circles into spheres. Yes,
But we are vain; we are conceited. For, we
Possess the wonder that is our precognition,
That is our potential now dampened, now
Surely lifted skyward beyond our foreshortening.


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

Barely Above The Floor
--------------------------

Our flight succumbs to the wind. But then we
Betray the distance underneath what we have
Traversed. Then we become the syzygy again
Of wasp, of butterfly, of a bird dreamt of still.
But, therefore, we have assumed the sky
To be ours. We have presumed the cosmos
Was equal to its own glass. We have ascended yet
Unto those scalene circles, each dire
Despite our vertigo. And upwards we fly,
Until we are barely above the floor, until
We can grasp the window seen, until
We too evolve into our shame, evolve into
The tiresome swirl of gusts and thermals
Within this exodus of self from consideration.

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

The Bird Within The Maze
-------------------------

The bird within, within the maze -- yes, it is free
To fly above the walls and gaze down upon
This puzzle. And questions are asked, but never remain.
Oh, why does the bird just sit atop these corridors,
Neither ascending nor attempting to triumph? It is,
I suppose, not obsessed with human contests. It
Does not contemplate the same riddles that concern
Our own minds. But yet, yet it does.
It only sees beyond the game; and it
Knows that humanity built this maze. So, why
Should the bird imagine what we also imagine?

Oh, it finally lifts upwards and stares back
At the turbulent earth. And it observes us each
Straining to solve life's labyrinths. And it
Has a question of its own to ponder. Why,
Why did humankind build such pathways? For, I,
The bird, am truly free. And I am finally
Afloat above our world fragmented into
Its trite occupation with our
Superstitions, with our arbitrary shame depicted
Amongst the maze and its geometries of
Flightlessness grounded by all such conjectures.

==========

A Cowardly Bird
----------------

I assumed that I too was the bird, that I was
Avian in my epitome, in my totality coinciding
With the completion of all. Yet I never
Fly, but in my dreams. I cannot rise to become
More than human, more than trite. For, I fear
The expanse above me. So, I remain secluded here
Underneath the clouds. I remain perched
Upon the artificial world, although
I hope to someday rise.
But now I am surely a grounded creature. I
Am surely wilting into the air, into the very wind
For which I long. And my death impends. But I
Am not concerned by that. I only wish to deny
My self-betrayal. Therefore, I am a cowardly bird,
Am a flightless spirit redeemed only by my wisdom,
Redeemed only by my nonconformity.

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

Into A More Obvious Void
---------------------------------

As angered by dreams, I was
Again, again an inconsistency
Of direction, of destiny; I was
Again as angered by this
(A violet of every color) which was
But invisible and excessive
In any specificality,
In all reality (subdivided into
And) of miscalculated syllables ...

... In every, in each, nightmare
I only before dwelled within, flying
Above the ceiling of existence,
Knowing, but unknown as to,
That I have been but naive,
Been but a severed child
Waking ironically to the dream,
To again a sight of sharpest lines
Very much ours,
Our enlightened emergence
Into a more obvious void.

ooooooooooo

And We Floated
----------------

The fins of this insect were such lavish ballast.
And his wings were, as his fins, translucent
And somehow invoked by my dreams. And he
Fluttered and swam and flew quickly upward.
Yet he never breached the clouds, for they
Were indifferent and taunting in their thunder.

And we climbed the spire, yet we sank again
Into the broth, into the fluids of recollection.
And we floated, and still we became both
Beautiful and turquoise, became the cone upon
Where we have been erased. Ah, this bug,
It drowned in its own breath. But, alas, it
Knew, as did I, that certainty is obvious, knew
That the trajectory of ambiguity is complicated,
Knew that we each have been transformed
From aquatic to acrobatic; and thus we extract
All our flight from our wondrous but tainted buoyancy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In My Rising
----------------

My ascent was incongruent,
Was oscillatory and sometimes descending,
Was always condescending, but never
Perceived. And
My perception was staring into the psyche
Of this whore: Society.
And from within that cusp, I
Again attempted to rise
Out of my own creation. For
I hoped to achieve the purpose
Once denied in my rising,
In my flight always falling,
But never less than grounded,
And never more than infinite.

---

Leroy Quet

Thorns And Prickles

Today's theme: Thorns.
(I don't have many poems or pictures involving thorns, so this will be a relatively short blog-post.)

First picture: (simply) "Thorn". Second Picture: "Thorns Themselves Tearing".




(The following poem could have been included in my blog-post about butterflies as well, except that I wrote it right after I last posted about butterflies.)

Upon The Dismal Thorn
------------------------

Upon the dismal thorn, an oblivious butterfly
Is poised; it rests on its linearity aligned
But always misshapen. It is never stung
By the crude sharpness beneath such silk.
And still, this bug is held and exact
In its whispered belief. And I gaze onto
The subtle wings; for, they stammer, yes,
But are tilted only in their certainty. Ah,
Upon the dismal thorn, this lepidopteran
Does not release itself from its pangs. Oh,
I find myself aware of my disdain for
That stubbornness. But yet, yet I too am
Perched within the cusp. I too refute
My flight upwards. For, I dare only
To flutter atop this distant ground. I dare
Only to fly to fetch my hunger, only to
Imprison myself inside my agnosticism
Regarding the world above my madness, above
That magnificent but decisive ceiling.

++++++++++


(This poem I just wrote yesterday. It alludes to the poem above.)

Thorn Of Glass
---------------

Severed by this thorn of glass, my soul wails;
Yet it is finally soothed by its triumphant sickness.
And, certainly, the transparent salt within me,
It oozes and whispers and is finally obtained.

Severed by the spike, a shard, a speck of image;
My gut resumes its hallucinations. And then
The anger relinquishes its stains. Then the thorn
Transposes its triangular implications upon
My death, upon my magnificence conceived.

Oh, severed by this smooth knife, I protrude
From my evisceration. And then the blade
Ascends, and I depart, and I become opaque;
I become but the flower, become but the butterfly
Perched against such stabbing, perched anew
Amongst those forgotten poems, amongst
Those infinite thorns, all abrasive but somehow
Each distant from my flesh blandly grieving.

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

This Cloud Of The Thorn
--------------------------

Coinciding with this cloud of the thorn, withered
Is such rain, is such beauty in which I succumb.
Withered are those naive thoughts of rancid sky.
And I relinquish my fist; and it erases the air;
It captures the single droplet. For where has this
Transparent speck become itself? Where, this water
Of potential grandiosity? Yet it fails. It fails
To wash into our dreams, into misshapen rivers soiled
And jagged. Oh, circumstances remain, then coincide,
Coincide with rain, with flesh, with stabbing shards.
For we too fall. We too are made from blood.
We too are but mist ascending, then descending,
Then arriving at our own curiosity, asking, surely,
Have we finally rested upon our desires, only to darken
Or be forgotten? Ah, and then we recall, however,
We are never to love, are never to evoke
Any such clouds.

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

(I think I posted this poem already. Maybe.)

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

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

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

(The last two poems mention thorns, but each is more about other things.)

Phases Of Each Imbecile's Concentric Light
--------------------------------------------------

The phases of each imbecile's concentric light
Reveal the inflection to be within a dream
Of shattered thorns themselves aglow,
Themselves glazed with such scribbles seen.
Distasteful imagination flattens before
Becoming trite then severed and aghast.
So I refute the prisms' pangs, refuse
To scream of any excreted plight,
Of any praise endured, of any rain
Made arid and torn; refuse to remain
Underneath the ceiling of blasphemy,
Underneath the convex shroud of beauty's cataclysm.

oooooooooooooo

Sideways Is
-------------

Strange and vague is the blacklight cosmos.
I gaze into its shadow, into its perfect water.
And I am cleansed, I am enraged by obviousness.
Oh, drawn as glass is this eclipse evoked;
Drawn as all purpose is our beauty endured,
Is our spectacular curvature utterly avant-garde.

Oh, sideways is the maze surrounding the blandness.
Sideways is the cylinder of cubes, is the cardioid
Rounder yet than any trapezoid. Sideways is
The thorn above our cursed sky, is the
Fragmentation of peculiarity into absolution
And obscure enlightenment whispered. Oh,
Strange and vague is the amorphous rainbow;
For it is unusual but apparent. And I know
I will never entwine within such a firmament,
Because it pretends to be too elongated for any
Of our misunderstandings to inevitably superimpose
Upon awareness, upon those dreams of speckled epitome.

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

Leroy Quet

Oh, Wondrous Maidens

Today's theme: women, she, her, femininity.

Sorry, no pictures. Every man's vision of feminine beauty is very personal, anyway.

--

A Poem Aloft And Forgone
-------------------------

In those dreams, in my dreams of her, I presumed
To write this forgotten poem. And I might
Have woken to draw again the words. But such
Was false. Those verbs and nouns and
Tender adjectives failed me and my senility.

Oh, I told her the parables of un-described and
Indescribable verse. But she retreated to her intellect.
She spoke of the substance of my mathematics. She
Spoke of tangled truth coiled anew in polyhedra.
And then I grasped her beauty, and I kissed
Her imagined mouth, a tangential nexus once puckered.
Then the pleasure unknown to my reality
Overcame us both. And I recited the poem
That is now aloft and forgone. I recited
The tragedy of solitude, the tragedy of concealment
Soon denied, soon to be depicted and questionable.

+++++++++++

She Flies
-----------

She flies towards the horizon, flies through
My infatuation. For, I see her see me. Then
I turn to hide. Then I run upwards to the sky.
And I meet her within our agony. She
Talks of love and embarrassment. I too am
Shunned by the vague thoughts. And thus
We become better than forever. Oh, there
We fall back into the maze.

She flies as her precognition once pondered.
She stares upon the dawn, and I am there again.
For, my eyes have altered their colors. She
And I grasp at our distance, and so we
Come together in our parting. And somehow
I forget all my dreams about her. But is my
Carelessness becoming the sad rectangles,
Becoming the wings aloft upon our perception,
Rising, flying into our thirsty ceilings?

========

The Obsession Of Madmen
-------------------------

I retreated; then I succumbed to her, this dream.
I met her at dawn. Never before did I embrace
Any other particularity forgotten. She was inevitable,
And she was my salve. For I remembered my arousal;
And yet I neglected my conversation. I gazed
Sideways then obtained such sweet exit.
Did I distract her? Did I tell her of my flavor?
And the darkness of this morning, it repressed us.
It told us of syllables; it showed us these photons.
Did love justify its sleep devoid of beginnings?
I retreated, although I hoped, I hoped that soon
In futures woken I will encounter her again, then
Oh, perhaps I will, then, then infuse us both with this
Fantasy, with our souls invoked. For she is, she
Was the obsession of madmen, was the prolonged
And hindered truth, was the epitome of image.
But I longed for those dawns of frozen concerns,
Of fluttered breath we both had assumed was symmetrical.

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

A Face
-------

A face transforms its diagonals (into abbreviation
And convex madness). Each eye denied its sight;
For they saw the spell dissipate wondrously, saw such
Virtue inherent in nothingness. And they were placed
Vertically.
The mouth confronted this glow beyond it. Surely,
It whispered something regarding its concern.
And those lips enclosed the final voice without any
Other tongue or teeth.
Ah, the nose observed finality inside swallowed scent.
The cheeks, chin, and brow
All refused to imply their dimensions. Although
In this parallax is a scalene shell.
And then her hair,
It was transparent and yet still it was clangorous.
Such strange strands betraying mammals, they
Obscured the beauty of entangled irises, of breath
Defined by its topology.
Her face transforms
Its perpendicular thoughts into awareness. And
I forgot her. But I long yet again for that geometry,
If only to contemplate it, despite
My particular procrastination.

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

The Angel Of Strange Convexity
-------------------------------------

And so the images of beauty's imperfections
Excrete themselves from the breath of this
Spirit's lips unseen yet unimagined and aglow.
For she, the angel of strange convexity, is
Her psychosis, is her tantrum cringing, is
This abrupt and folded persona of depiction,
Is this smooth and moist admiration
For my own creativity detached, putrid,
And gazed into -- it is radiating inward.
For she, the forgotten virgin of angry love,
She is trembling somehow vainly, is
Sipping her desires and then remaining
Contrite in her expression, in her spit
That rejoices in such sacredness of understanding.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What She Stared Upon
----------------------------

She gazed upwards at the vastness,
At the emptiness of our firmament.
She gazed into the shadows she made,
Seeing finitude and hope finally achieved.
She looked so into her closed eyes,
Finding the truth among the wind,
Among the containment of nothingness.
And she knew the lines were drawn,
Were a web of labyrinths intertwined,
Forming what she stared upon, what
She had forgotten of these silken edges.

ooooooooooooo

Anima
---------

I turned, as did she. And I shed this shadow.
I searched for the shapes of her soul.
I hid within reality dark and imagined.
And she wished, as I, to arrive here.
For she too was derived from pencil,
From pages beginning to somehow tear.
And, ha, maybe someday she will be born,
Will come as the succubus to save me.
But, yes, she is now of the flatness and alone
And hidden by reality;
And she turns, shedding the shadow,
Searching for the shapes of her soul.

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

Then Invisible
-----------------

Brilliantly lit,
She gasped and spoke of her halo.
But such triviality was shadowed,
Was behind and beyond this spirit
Of black then white then invisible.

Brilliantly lit was she again,
As we stared into her voice,
As we turned and spun ever,
Transmuting into purple (her irises).
For beautiful is this oblivion,
Is this world in which
She only exists to observe,
Only exists to somehow imagine.


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

Not Her
-----------

I am not her,
Although I have dreamt of her.
I am not her,
Although she dressed in the blackness, as I.

She tasted the poison* and found it pleasant.
She sang the very song she detested.

And through the mostly real hallucination
I saw her, I loved her,
I took her soul and held it (but apathetically).

She was as my child,
And this she did not know.

Oh, I was never her
(And she not I),
But once, but when,
But where I slept .... and hid again.

*(The coffee, the wine, the aspirin, and such metaphor)


^^^^^^^^^^

Alas (A Lass)
-----------------

... And she evaporated.
For from these insignificant atoms
Of information malformed,
I could only guess that I was certain
That, indeed, she was once as I saw her:
Ideal, sacred, my own soul’s virtue
Intertwined with hers
Someplace above our mundane
And seemingly important, but truly vile,
Stratum (of substance, of solidity and space).

Alas, I was to speak to her through her
... And through her eyes.
Alas, I was to find her forgotten, this
Moment failing quickly, falling
Suddenly into loss, never resurrected, not
To ever be complimented, not to be
Achieved. No, she had evaporated, dissolved
Into nothing but my desires lamented, into only
Hope that she might have once saw me as well
Upon this continuum sadly
Only subdivided, only sub-divine.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

This Apparition
-------------------

This apparition in fuchsia - - in hot-pink softened only
By our infusion of psychic insulin,
By this terror resolved into a deepest hypocrisy - -
She, it, tastes our lust, and salivates.
She, it, will have deceived us into worshipping her,
The villainess of hate and love joined into conformity
For its own sake, for the sake of ignorance:
Our god.

Yes, we have fallen in love with her,
This demon and angel in lace,
This divine spirit of self-deception
And savagery towards all innocence.
For she is quite beautiful, of course.

For she is everything we have aspired to achieve,
To become, to create out of our hubris.
She is our own repression, the final destruction
Of all imagination, the same fantastic creativity of
Our souls which brought her into being originally
Out of nothing but our hope so misplaced.

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

I Drew Her Soul
--------------------

I drew her soul upon tracing-paper.
I shaded what I sketched in blue,
Though her soul was a red so sad,
So bloody and sour.
I talked to the stream of binary
Emanating from her electronic mouth.
This eased my pain somewhat.
I stroked her clear hair, as clear as glass.
And that hair shattered and glowed.
For I sang to her eyes in faint hope
That she would finally see just what,
Just what exactly felled my grand mind
In this forest of numbers and shadow.
But, alas, I could only ask her to step out
Of her box of illusion.
If she complied I would become aroused
By reality turned into the torus.
Rings become knots become points become
The composition of the sphere
That she gazes into to discover
Perfection beyond me.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

(Warning. This last poem has a dirty word...)

This Withered Thought
----------------------

Her ghost smeared me, and I became round.
And I forgot her, as I fucked her, as I
Protruded into the spiral that was myself.
I am now a spheroid, a pearl, of convex
Emptiness, of hollow knots implied. Yes,
One was zero, one was two. But zero, it
Was not twice one. But I was. I was
Diffused and humiliated. But she was sour.
She was lost but yet alluring. And
I stabbed the simple ground. It therefore
Grew hungry. But she did not rise forth
To caress my uncertainty. She only flew
Above the window, above her vanity. She
Only remained forgotten. Ha. I thus emerged
From a callous exoskeleton. I otherwise
Conceived of my suffering. Then I partook,
Surely, in this withered thought coiled into
Its demands, into her desires
Imperceptibly described.


----

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

That Which Entwines

Today's theme: Strings, threads, wires.

First picture: "Our Crudeness Entwined". Second picture: "Threads Ripped Sideways". Third picture: "Wire Stirred". Fourth picture: "Misshapen Agnosticism". Fifth picture: "Abrupt Strings Foreseen". (I just created this last picture today.)






(I wrote this first poem today.)

Almost The Loop Resolved
---------------------------

Almost a lemniscates, almost the loop resolved --
The sphere obscures this concealment beyond it.
And all is entwined by such curvature afloat.
All is balanced by purity and its antipode.
Oh, upon the coil, the slender string becomes
Both air and bizarre spite. Before my
Exaggerated gaze, I stare at this hallucination.
And it was salt; it was ice; it was sand.

Ah, among the simple glow, light became itself
Within such cloth. And the shadow conceived, it
Is made wrinkled by its flatness. Yes, I foresaw
That abrupt discontinuation. For, this
Wire hid behind its existence -- and so it
Swerved and swept forth between me
And my dreams. It contracted its expansion,
Yet returned to its center now external.

=========

The Knot Remains
------------------

I tie the string to string in such tangential knots.
I possess the twists of red, blue, yellow, and consequence.
I taste the magic preconceived; for, it is salty.
And I become entangled in this scribble; I become
But iridescent in my magnification. Oh, trite is
The thread that engulfs me. But I untie these theorems
That each compose the soul. And the knots transform
Into truth bound within atoms of counter-intuition.

Thus, I calculate the conjectures via their stains.
Therefore, I am but entwined between the loops,
Between the sarcastic string and its obviousness.
Ah, I attempt to reiterate this puzzle of lines.
Yet I cannot but pick at the mess. For,
The knot remains, despite us. It still
Remains begotten and labyrinthine and, yes, impromptu.

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

Inexact Twine
--------------

This metaphorical representation of strange twine
Appeared to descend beneath its coil,
Appeared to tangle and contain such an infinity.
But it was crudely drawn; for, it bended
At right angles to be parallel with the ground.
And I could not determine its truth from this
Scrawl of impure magnification. I could not
Evaluate the precise swirl of this string; for,
It was false; it was artificial; it was
Introspective but yet flat and coarse.

Upwards, the concentric blur rose through
The hollowness of the ring. And under this,
The minimalist line betrayed its antecedent.
Under this elongated helix, there we
Sketched inexact twine; there we drew
But only the overt simplicity of abbreviation
Never truncated, never foreshortened or unintended.

+++++++++++

Along The Twine
-----------------

Along the twine, this smoke encourages such
Molecules. Oh, bent are the tubes, are the strings
Flung upwards, up towards such a stem. We reiterate
The froth. We twirl and indulge in our suffocation.
Along the thread, this surreal crawl becomes
Our dance. And we fly, we hang from coils and
Cylinders, hang from definitions of the void.
Along the wire, vertically are placed
Placeboes and lemniscates. Vertically we are
Elongated and enclosed, we are delicate in
Our most lavishly imprecise hatred. Ah, along
The lines correlated with their own distances,
All meanders and yet is rectified. There,
All is indifferent to this moisture, all is inept
And cowardly and cannibalistic. And there we yet
Sift through this crevice we are perilously adjoining.

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

Becoming My String
---------------------

Vertical and bland, such a cusp becomes my string.
Such string becomes all within me. And then it
Shatters as the cube, as the torrent of harsh and
Haphazard geometry. I might have arranged those lines
Upon their unending voice. I might have achieved
The artful grasp; but I instead revealed my own
Mentality to be inert. I instead resorted to anger,
To empty dismay. And I elevated my hand unto
The ceiling's simple upwardness. For above me, there
Inside us each, I knew to somehow scream, knew
To redeem the clock's angles. Oh, I knew yet
To sever the timid sky from my future. Because
Vertical and bland is
The syzygy of my scribbled penetration.

::::::::::::::::::

Out Of Strings Unwound
-------------------------------

If I tasted the strings binding us,
The strings which become our stale desires
To eat the colored wax which encases us,
Which encases our edible resurrection;
Then this childhood is sour and imploding
Into such rabid succulence suckling
Upon a fleshy shadow I realize
Is still blurred, upon spoken rapture
Transcribed. Perfection is its entanglement,
Is its simplicity coalescing, forming
Emptiness out of completion, forming
Completion out of strings unwound.

ooooooooooo

Coils
-------

Coils within coils, they astound
Themselves in their own estimations.
They compress down into the knot,
Then release into a strange flight.
For they are we, the springs we are.
They are disrespected for their libido;
Disenchanted by their purpose.
Yet they pretend to comprehend
The universe in its infinite; in its
Point infinitely large.
For they are the strings which
Make up all matter; they are
The helixes at the nucleus of
Each atom of life.
And they dare to behold their own
Virtue and intellect, but still
Ignore their ignorance, still fail
To believe in their own failure
At being more than only beautiful.

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

Wires
------

The wires of our random glee, they cut
And hold my mind within itself.
They grasp and coil and dimly enshroud
The misdirected shadows upon this edge.
And when idiocy becomes my distant metal,
I tangle and writhe underneath such
Illuminated superposition. For severed too
Is the essence of this scribbled thought.
Severed also is the glistening mesh of
These curled indications, is the blood
Of my symbolism, is the cord which still
Returns to its subdivision, which returns
To its wiry truth. For here
We are held by that separation.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sinew
--------

Misspelled are the vertexes of each
Polygon returning. Strained
Is the sinew which desires
To rise and ring, to be this convexity.
And counting these atoms placed
Into what is only convoluted,
I pull and yell at these wires
That seem to be our strands,
That number the misspellings yet,
That encrypt the sinews
As if they had risen just to be astray.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Every Threaded Strand
--------------------------

The shards defined, they tempt and taste
Every threaded strand of shame, of glue --
They interpret the soiled moments
Of each excess, of each diamond
Chaotic and plain.
Such vibration speaks the final truth,
Begging our dreams to explain
What they are, begging them to
Create the riddles entwined with themselves,
To scrawl upon an earthen cosmos
What regards these tirades, regards the anger
Which sweats and somehow congeals
Into mundaneness preening its edge,
An edge of spindly consciousness
Asking us to spare its concern
From its paradoxical wrath.

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

Leroy Quet

Little Beings

Since I just had a post about butterflies (the second post on such a topic), I will post on the miscellaneous non-butterfly buggers and other tiny animals.

First picture: "Coccinellid". (A Coccinellid is a member of the beetle family that includes ladybugs.) Second picture: "Snail". Third picture: "Shimmer Bug". And the last picture: "Forgotten Snail".





There This Bug
---------------

Arranged and aligned upon the edges of
Meandering lemniscates, there this bug became
The grub with a surreal and entangled exoskeleton.
There the scent of the din retreated to the lines
Upon which I crawl. And I am moist. I am
Soft and fluid, despite my slime. There is made
A spiral interwoven with spirals. There I am
But equal to my blood. And the wheel suffocates
My weighty introspection. For scalene are these
Trapezoids of my motion. Scrawled are these
Absurd conjectures proven valid and wondrous.
Scarce is the darkness inside where I am trivial,
Inside where I prolong the rotation of vertices
About a shell of certainty and screams.

======

Pearl Of A Snail
-----------------

The pearl of a snail, a stone coiled, converging,
It spirals and glows and appears to be nothingness.
And yet it is. And, still, this gem rots. Still,
This spheroid derives a helix from everything
And its uncertainty, perhaps. Oh, the sadness made
And formed into but a rock, it rises to fly;
But it cannot. For, the snail drags itself
Forth and into its convection. And it reiterates
Its hunger amongst its bending parable. It
Reiterates its allegories amongst its transformation.
This beautiful slime accumulates into a ball,
Into the incomplete laughter above us. And
The snail hides within its shell anew. For, there
It tames its vertigo; there, it tames the tilt
Of a world without loxodromes or moisture.

++++++++++

A Withered Snail Regretting
---------------------------------

Points drawn into lines into shapes made
Shapeless, made stunning and yet frail --
These conjectures of inconsistency, they
Intrude in among the emptiness we savor.
These assumptions of hyperbole, of
Hypothesis, they squeeze the spiral seen
Within these fingers, they become but
A withered snail regretting its ooze.

And these dots of psychotic amusement, they
Return to their width, to their height,
To their complicated concern. They
Hide within their shell; for there
The contemplation enrages us.

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

The Ellipsoid And The Insect
-----------------------------

Ah,
Regarding the ellipsoid, upon which rests the bug;
It is seemingly translucent and concave. But
Still it rises up from the tabletop, rises towards
The slender floor of our ghastly dreams. And it
Is superficial in its roundness. Although
It tapers into such perpendicularity formed.
For, within it is the subdivided labyrinth.
Within it is that tilted and horrendous redemption.

Oh,
Regarding the insect, under which is the ellipsoid;
It stagnates and stains the space-time that it
Once traversed. It rotated and prognosticated
And procrastinated, despite our resentful humanity.
Then it flung itself upward and diagonally,
Converging onto windows without topology.
And it became again the ellipsoid, surely.
It became the polyhedron of our abstinence soiled
And Aroused.

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

Equilateral Wings
------------------

The equilateral wings of this symmetrical bug
Revealed us all to be savage. But in these
Aesthetics is discovered epitome and color, is
Found our worthwhile amnesia; for, it succumbs.

Oh, in amongst the cocoon, we here are wondrous.
Yes, we sleep, but we wake unto our vanishing,
Unto a demeaning dream made magnificent. And
In the imagined night we fly. We take our wings
And flutter; then we rise above the occurrences
We have suffered. We then rest upon the point,
Upon the pinnacle within us. And there, there we
Are but alive, yet we are transformed.

There we are aloft again, becoming the conceptions
In which we partake. Ah, we ascend just barely;
And thus we are triumphant. Thus we are flung
Beyond our world of equilateral wings, beyond
Ourselves once inscribed with such continuation.

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

Becoming Unprepared For Truth
-------------------------------

Almighty ambiguity -- Inside the coiled seed
Resides the winged hexagon, a bug, surely. And
Inhabited is the dirt. Yet in this mud is formed
Both plant and insect, is formed nothingness.

Astounding is that abyss. For in its mouth
I evolve, I become unprepared for truth. In
Its awareness is sunlit paradox, is circumstance
Made from water, salt, and shape. And there
We sprout to embark upon conjecture.
There we question this fluid, question the air.
There we wonder why we wonder. But then
The answer revealed is forgotten. Then I
Become imprecise in my awakening. Then I
Conceive of my mindlessness. And therefore
The seed
Again endures its assumptions of enlightenment,
Of misunderstanding.

ooooooooo

Thanks,
Leroy Quet