We Are Stained

Today's theme: Stains.

First picture: "Sanctum Stained". Second picture: "Stains". Third picture: "A Stain Of Our Triteness". Last picture: "Stains Construed".





I have written many poems involving stains. Here is just a small sampling.

---

(I wrote this one just today.)

This Stained Silhouette
-------------------------

Within the edge of light's spherical utterances,
One turbulent silhouette is encompassed by its own
Tangential curl. For, such seems to be a disk.
But, truthfully, it is but an allegory of
Plagiarized spirals. And upon that glowing edge,
It glistens and sleeps. But suddenly it will
Float in its angles not obvious or known.

For, I could not construe its constituents,
Whether they were of acid or of glass or of clouds. I
Could only determine my own vision's grasp.
My thoughts, however, were unknown, were vanishing.

Oh, this ellipsoid of antecedent and breath,
It rotated into its innards. But in the
Blasphemy of peculiarity, there I was invoked.
There upon the wheel, all assumptions were
Forgotten. There, light spoke. And this stained
Silhouette degenerated; then it was subdued by
Its cosmic metaphors, by its transformation
Into cobweb and nautilus, by its frustration
Instinctive resented, insufficiently resonant.

=======

(Did I post this one already?)

Upon Stained Air
------------------

Of yellow and amber, a billowing dichotomy
Is raised in this smoke. And from the fire
Was begotten those thirsty wings of an
Introspective butterfly. Ah, upon stained air
Eddies formed the eyes of this insect's flight.
And as all glistened, I saw in the swirls and
Lemniscates the essence of delicate truth. I saw
These parables of profanity made sweet. I observed
The breath of my choking blood. But yet the wind
Comes and dissipates this enlightenment. Then
Those wings fly into their counterintuitive
Meaninglessness. Then I gasp at such wizardry
Devoid of magic. For, the colors and thoughts
Once triumphant, they pass into their shattering.
They pass into a wondrous breeze
Of memory surely severed.

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

An Ominous Rot
----------------

An ominous rot has become my naive gluttony, has
Been made into my convulsing dreams. And this stain
Of damp dissonance, it too shudders and flings its pity
Onto this prison in which I am engulfed. Salvation
Flutters and stagnates so as to refuse my hunger for it.
Therefore, I am savage.
Ah, the ominous rot has become us each, has transformed
Our existences into oscillation and foam. But yet, yet this
Treasonous purity within me succumbs to the mold, to
The flesh of amoebas and their castration. But yet again,
I dissolve into crumpled crumbs, into entropy
Failing to remain equal to its balance. And I then
Sicken, for this euphoria has contaminated my mind; for
This rot remains my grotesque and stale absurdity; for it
Creates the stench from my repulsive cadaver unexplained.

oooooooooooo

(I may have already posted this old poem.)

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

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

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

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

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

***********

A Cosmos Stained
-----------------------

Ha, we are within electric cobwebs, within
Light spun from its own colors, spun
From a haphazard glow inflamed, from
Saturn's crumbs remaining stagnant,
Becoming transitional, yet to be
Inevitable.
Purified was this mass of emptiness;
And severed too it was from imagination
Confounded, confused by its simple
Yet maddening gaze -- such is a cosmos stained
By this, its tilted and erased
Cacophony, by its truthful sweat
Inside which we are all entombed.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Each Wisp Of Imprecise Solitude Decaying
-------------------------------------------

These meek spheres of uncertain mist overlap
That which is balanced upon such an elongated
Fulcrum. Dripping upon their still silhouettes, the
Curves coinciding all fold then coil, becoming
That moisture engaged in rupture, in transcendence.
Oh, these meek globules of vapor and simplicity,
They recede into millimeters and arc-seconds, retreat
Into the proper water of imagined stains.
And I grasp the foam; I rub the absurdity.
For I taste the window yet immense. I
Taste those miniscule bubbles of air and distance.
I touch again my finitude now blurry, touch
Again the savagery encompassed by perfection,
Encompassed by haphazard beauty and by
Each wisp of imprecise solitude decaying.

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

Liquid Itself Dissolved
----------------------------

Liquid itself dissolved... Complete, lustful, enduring:
For it is soaked thoroughly from within,
Becoming the salt that tastes of its dire dehydration.
This water of oblique character
Sleeps, swallows, screams, suffocates yet.
It feasts on hungry stillness. Then it
Transposes so as to clarify its odor, so as
To retain its invisibility. And surely the stains
Of such imagination will flutter, will
Stagnate and regenerate, will contain
The edgelessness, the endlessness, which is its beauty,
Which was that concentric liquid
Once poisonous, once magnificent, once
Angered by its own introspective inebriation.

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

Wither Yet
-----------

Exhausted and convex is every dream of
Analogous vastness defiling its depth. I knew
Such exotic spinning to be these hallucinations,
To be the utter continuum of absent sophistry,
To be the exhausted and convex shards
Which enlighten us, which are the grizzly spell within.

Perfected and composed is each breath of
Anagrams wasted despite their rot. I saw
Such extreme rotation to be this death,
To be the hungry constancy of absurd stillness,
To be the perfected and composed stains
That electrify us, that are the dimmest specks which
Wither yet.

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

Such Staccato Stains
---------------------------

Created is the careless droning -- for it
Soothes this typographical jaggedness.
For it justifies its amplitudes, then defiles
The niches within us. For it misplaces
The grid onto that stuttering curvature.
Yet these glistening shivers entrust us to be
The slurred blurs of esoteric constipation.
They truncate such staccato stains so as
To bleed upon the carcass, so as to
Shine throughout the rust of astrophysics.
Created
Is the carnivorous breath. And reassured
Are the splendid voids embalmed, are each
Distinctive and stale horizon, are the
Cautious winds for which we must deny
Any hollowness blended with its sour contrast.

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

The Taste Of Conclusive Saliva
--------------------------------------

Huddled and hurdled within my assumptions;
This is what has retraced its incantations,
This is that which is poignant elimination
Of such directionlessness, of death's semblance
And beauty's concern. This is a stain
Remaining until we return from our images;
This is the taste of conclusive saliva, is
The mismatched condemnation inert and utterly
Spiteful, utterly sanctified and still justified
By the thoughtless shards, by the
Stabbing numbers once defiant, once
The itch we equate to, that we seek,
If only to then circumvent the logic of this,
Of disaster and celibacy regressing.

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

Circles Stained
--------------------


Aground, this dream has been flung
Onto earthen realities each within
The very radius of finitude. For here
We seek our static so as to create it.
Here we sleep before waking, wake
Before sleeping beneath what is below us,
Beneath such an embellishment imposed.
Here we grasp the exacting chords,
Then paste the crumbs upon them,
Then long for depth among this enumeration,
Among 12 subdivided concoctions
Made from circles stained by their resonance.

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

This Surface Of Earthen Stain
------------------------------------

Made from only situation, the tapestry is
What forms each curvature, what forms
And believes this surface of earthen stain
To be a sore both divine and rough.

Made from only lust and its hollowness,
The depths of rock etched roundly
Rise to the edge of clouds alone,
Rise into seeming insignificance,
Rise into walls of presence and emptiness,
Into sharp arrays of either
Time and/or
Compassion absurd but yet intersected.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

This The Stains
--------------------

But un-wondered has yet this been:
Why have we not recalled nor known
The exact arrangements of this which is,
Which is (and are) these stains?

But accused was I of such
An inhuman goal,
Of this impotence ignoring its very seclusion,
Erasing its very humanity, for it
(Humanity) is much too assuming, humanity
(It) is too much only hallucinated,
And is itself a vision made from and
Remade into its own deception, into
A belief, into the betrayal, into an absence
Of any meaningful queries
As to why have not we foreseen
(Nor imagined)
These the EXACT arrangements
Of this which is, these cobwebs,
These firmaments, these
Shards of disproven structure,
These our own souls, ourselves, these
Which are (and this which is) the stains.

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

Unlit And Imprecise Stain
---------------------------------

But only an unlit and imprecise stain
Held within time and orientation quite bigoted,
It was, it was beauty. It was unobservable
By any other, unless not I. Certainly,
If known by my certainty, then perhaps I might have
Forgiven the evils of hypocrisy, of
Desire and villainy and hideous conjoining.

But I now, I now resent my inability to discover
The very words I would have finally expressed,
But only as unlit and imprecise stains
(Stains representing every psychosis)
That, unexpectedly, we are still unmotivated
To express, express as only a single wordless phrase.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Spilled
---------

Spilled were the atoms of order-inverted,
Were the once-worshiped visions arising
From composition and stains quite
Bloody and corporal, although divine
And abstract. Yet
I again relapse as to be nothing more
Than an ink-blot indefinable, to nothing else
Than such a self-portrait invisible
To even my own mortal spirit.

For
I am only miscalculated by this
Which is the insanity of conformists,
Which are these atoms of order-inverted,
Of purity contaminated, of
Justice so vilely hypocritical. I am
Simply an amorphous circle,
A spill of an angry liquidity
Onto the pages of holy-books
Sacred, now destroyed, now soiled
And unreadable, but, as always,
Still never coherent despite their rambling.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Only A Stain, Only A Smudge
-------------------------------------

The smudge so noxious
Spread irregularly, and entwined
With every mistake and entropic
Design -- which I have but always spewed
From my spirit itself paranoid
And foul.

Oh, very true were the impossible (and
Irregular) revelations, were these hieroglyphs,
Not one expressible symmetrically,
Not any existent within the text
Of my once-bizarre hallucination.

No, very incorrectly has this ink-blot
(this calculation)
Been interpreted, this paradox
Been ignored. So very inaccurately
Has every universe been enumerated.

But yet I remain
Only a stain, only a smudge,
Lacking dimension or topology,
Lacking any emotion to be
Appreciated by the whole
Or its apathetic mathematics
Somehow (unjustly) intriguing.

[][][][]][][][][][[][]

As A Stain
-------------

I arbitrarily define all of reality
As a stain.
And as I stare, it slowly becomes awake, it
Is seen to transform into something larger,
Something more actual. It is known
To radiate color, glow yellow, glow red, white
And brown, to reinterpret that color as simply
One single calculation.

And we have loved it, worshipped it,
Longed to become it, to lust after it.
We have drawn it unremarkably in spite of
Its invisibility. We have
Inspired its savage and sadistic growth
Until it has soiled the sacred texts
With its greasy substance - - and so
We now might look through those texts
Unto what lies beyond; for the paper
Which represents enlightenment has
All been rendered serendipitously transparent.

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

(This last poem isn't beautiful or poetic. But it is surely fitting for this topic.)

The Sidewalk Stain
-----------------------

That vile unidentifiable stain on the sidewalk,
Is it vomit? Is it diarrhea?
Is it the result of a biological terrorist attack?
Maybe a dead animal once rested there,
All squished and oozing blood.
Or maybe it is not blood of an animal,
But of a person, shot in a mugging.
Maybe it is urine or sperm
Or tuberculosis-infected saliva.
Or maybe someone just spilled a soft drink
From a good-old-American fast-food joint.
Now, THAT would be REALLY frightening!

---

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Iridescence

Today's topic: Iridescence.

Also, see my earlier blog post about light and color (at this link):
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/10/blog-post_27.html


First picture: "Iridescent Nothingness". Second picture: "A Glow Circumvented". (A Glow Circumvented was also posted in the blog-post about light and color (which I link to above), as you may recall.)



(I may have already posted some of these.)


Shimmer
--------

Profoundly she writes cursively upon topaz,
Upon scribbles themselves gleaming, themselves
Scrawled over dim shadows made of stars,
Made of crystalline clouds reverberating.
Oh, she tasted such liquid, and thus it was ice.
And her words transcended sitars and labyrinths.
They trisected dimensions without volume into
The colors of those spheres. Ah, in this glass
I spoke to her, and she was symmetrical.
For, she mentioned these droplets, yes.
But they were only ghosts; they were
Only wondrous, as were uncertainty's prisms.
She whispered to me her kiss. Yet I dreamt
Of her lies. I dreamed of her prayers, of
Those proclamations of cursive hexagons, each
Described subtly, iridescently, and verbatim.

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

Within Iridescent Stone
-------------------------

Within the hand is the flower; within
The flower is the pod; within the pod
There are the seeds; within the seed is
Each abstract color once yellow, now
Purple, now painful and confined. Yes,
Within me is the hole; within that there is
The vague truth; within the truth is
The subtext of oblivious geometry, surely.
And within these shapes and prisms and light
Is your voice; and within such wonder
Are the dreams, are the words mentioned
And imagistic. Deep within iridescent stone,
There the sphere is its own epitome as
But a rectangle. There within this flame
Is only magic's metaphors, is only
Empty infinitesimals betrayed but beheld but
Tempered by the ambiguities of everything
And all's superficial constituents.

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

Rays Of Vision
----------------

This light, these photons, the rays of vision, oh,
Iridescent are the sine-waves compounded and opposed
And added and summed to become all exactness
Multiplied by truth and its variations. Red to
Yellow to green to cyan to blue to magenta --
We diffuse and refract such color again.
And all equals its magnification, equals its
Contraction once focused by a strange lens dreaming.
For, we invert the image, and yet
It is sustained. We convert particles to
Fluctuations. But these oscillations reverberate
And then ascend in quite a blurry arpeggio.
Oh, this light, it is negated and amplified,
It is nullified and duplicated. But somehow
We see only one spark of perpendicularity.
Somehow, this radiation is our hallucination.
Or it may be conjectured, may be absolute
And therefore clangorous in its coherent rigor.


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


Seen
-----

The cusp, the swirl, the loop,
The lemniscates, they are drawn by such light.
Within space and air, there the oval curl
Implies the darkness beyond it. Oh, seen
Are the specks between image and glare.
Seen are my blurry thoughts, each devoid
Of embodiment. Yes, seen is truth through
A window of wonder and metaphor. Oh,
I gaze onto the tangle, onto this
Moist suffering and its beauty. And
I see both our temptations and our hate.
I see circles and ellipses glowing, becoming
Their color and their fuchsia. I see
My obscured blindness surely astigmatic,
Surely iridescent but yet repetitive,
But yet grasped by the photons' edgelessness,
But yet grasped by these cosmic silhouettes of
Inwardness and intermediacy otherwise obvious.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Of A Spiral Somehow Concave
-------------------------------

The shape of a concave spiral; the spiral, the shape,
Obscures the quasi-sphere in which it is profound.
In its alliteration, it is drawn beneath the vertex.
In its scrawl, it is depicted via its intermediacy.
And yet it appears to be of glass. But it is
Transparent? Is it obvious in its ambiguity?
Yes, it is but a scribble re-represented. And
So, it attempts to rest upon such stone.
And in its fluid diffusion, it becomes this
Shape of a spiral somehow concave. In its
Concoction it is but a constituent of all.
And it denies it is iridescent. But, surely,
It has despised its own ascension. For,
It falls into the cement below it; and in
Its shattering it is stable; in its perception it
Is remembered; in its discovery it is composed
Of multiplicity carelessly elaborate.

ooooooooooooooooo

(The following poem was one of the first I posted on this blog. But I repost it because it is on-topic.)

Iridescent Mauve
------------------

Benign is the grandiosity of this iridescent mauve. Such
Imagination expressed distracts our lines from the concave,
From all that pretends to be convex. Such lucid diameters
Repeat then coagulate -- because none are perpendicular.
Such erosion converges so as to eradicate this dream
Inside where I am invisible yet afloat. Therefore,
Benign is the gradual overwhelming of our salvation.
For in the causality of the metronome I am sipped,
I am shown to be distant and unseen. I am obvious
In my contagion, yes. Because benign is the sugar
That spills from my flask. For it descends
Into my final waking; it ascends unto my indecision,
Unto the scarlet of our blind prism, of our
Perplexing emptiness counted and then discarded
From intersections superimposed but epitomized surely.

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

Some Kind Of Perfection
-------------------------------

Each color, every point along the real-line,
Is somehow purple, unless it is isolated
And alone; then it is glowing in its
Own vision. But, unfortunately, not
One single hue, discovers itself in
Some kind of perfection,
Discovers itself resolved to
Its very purity. No, all frequencies
Of photons inspired, they completely
Find themselves to be violet. No,
They find themselves to be blue-green,
And still uncertain of their orangeness
Becoming yellow. For all sight
Washes away with the clear water
Poured over this canvas. All design,
All curves, imagine themselves made
Straight and unbroken. So I attempt
To distinguish the unresolvable, the
Unsolvable puzzle. For I am human.
But still I am strangely iridescent,
Strangely invisible.

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

Elements
-----------

The photon recited that aria
Of iridescence, that aura derived
From the fires of heaven, the
Emotion felt only in a sleep
Obscured by the water drowning,
By the air breathing, by
The earth encased within its
Soul now flat ... once again.

The prism which was light itself,
That vision gazing back upon
The hallucinator, it was in pasts
Long before our minds became
Real and imagined, it was every and
All elements; it was all; and
It was, and has been consistently,
The very emptiness containing its
Substance, containing its virtue,
Containing all awareness (of self,
Of selflessness) of everything, of
Every atom becoming as grand
As the entire universe created.

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Do Words Describe Themselves?

Hi, again. I am sorry that I haven't posted in more than a week. (The amount of time between successive posts to this blog is getting bigger and bigger, if you haven't noticed.) I should say that if you are craving some poetry (or computer art), but I haven't posted in a while, then go back and read some of my older posts. I have posted 50-60 posts to this poetry blog, as of now.

Today's theme: Poetry and poems. (No computer art, though.)


Some poetry about poetry:
---

A Haiku Of Nearly A Million Words
-----------------------------------

Drawn upon the sky
Was a haiku of almost
One million sad words.


Upon the sky I drew
A haiku of nearly a million words.
But yet only one metaphor was remembered; and
Yet the ghosts stared upwards onto surreal night.
Yes. Of geometry, of each dimension, of imagination
Always imprecise -- I was conscious of this verse
Hewn from rotation and stagnation,
Cut from dichotomy and solitude surely
Perceived in this hallucination of everything.

Ah, upon the sky I drew
Atoms of epitome and wonder.
And, still, my vowels became my verbs, became
The poetry without antagonism or amnesia. For,
Phonemes sketched inside me, oh, they demanded
I write of their pronunciation. But, alas, these
Wings of my fingertips, they took the pen, and
Then I was conjugated; then I was haphazard
And literal. But never was I strained by
Any such curious allegory coarsely comprehended.

+++++++++

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.

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

Of Such Purple And Words
-----------------------------------

She was so the angel perfect
Caught within the maze an abacus.
I know, yes, I have written previously
Of such purple and words.
But the powers of good desire
My rotation upon the inside
Of a spiral mandala illuminated.
Okay.
She was every circle without center,
Without circumference or emotion.
And caught among our world,
A game of cobwebs
And unwoven silk,
We knew nothingness,
And still we slept again.
Again we read this poem
While time-travelling to the present,
This poem of madness benign,
This poem of purple, of words.

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

A Poem Made
------------------

This poem contains not a soul,
Possesses not an essence,
Does not equal meaning aside from its words
Combined and arranged
In an unexpectedly simple sequence
Falsely of the patterns
Plaid, square, circular, and curved,
Falsely triangular and hexagonal,
Truly just of an edge
(Its own encompassing),
Truly an edge which is ours,
An edge yet never defining any more
Than this unspectacular poem,
A poem made and written so as to only justify
My seeming intellect
Waking, woken, and resisting,
Resisting the returning night.
(For night,
It shuns such composition.
And day,
It only writes again
What has already been recreated.)


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

Mind Knot
-------------

My mind is intertwined in cliches of its own construction,
All incredible laziness and pseudo-beauty.
No thoughts can overcome this malaise.
No dreams occur when I’m awake,
Yet my awake soul is caught in a dream.
And the tangle has permanently trapped me;
And I think that maybe I can use anger at myself
To cut myself free.
Maybe poetry will severe the bonds.
But I am only entangled more
By those cliches and that laziness.
For it seems that my only escape
Is the spontaneous pair-production of the opposites
Of creativity and wisdom.
Will this universe ever save me?
Or will it suffocate my mind
In this knot of consciousness?

oooooooooooo

Implode As Words
-------------------------

The maze itself (yes, you have seen such
As these paths written {and equal to}
Their unproven conjecture), it contained
Myself and never another. But again it is
Vacant, is so empty a game, so much a riddle
Told relating to its answer, a
Phrase implied by these antecedents
Returning to be defined by only this
Single hypothesis which I have endured.

For these unexpected revelations, these
Deities of numbers, these flat and curved
Points, they are themselves and within
The poem of colors incongruous; they
Each implode as words of my introspection,
Each impose nothingness into every verse
Of poetry only beheld as paths in conscious mazes,
In my very consciousness
Unaware of its corridors.

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

Poetry Arrogant And Unjust
----------------------------------

It is just this one obstructed
And obscenely-unfocused word,
This blurred and eclipsed phrase
Superimposed with itself ...within
Its indeterminate sphere, existing
Always inside this which it is:
The poetry arrogant and unjust and
Angering (as it is too its anger) and
Unpurposed and seemingly fantastic --
For its bombast is cliche. But
It is somehow still the spawn of:
No ancestor nor predecessor, of
The loop itself created
From creation entwined
With its perfect, its absolute, oneness.

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

Unexpressed And Blank
-------------------------------

This might had been the final poem,
Whether written or only indirectly implied,
If only my hatred was the truest solution,
If but my salvation was, were the questions
Themselves, the questions themselves asked,
Focused only into their inward centers,
Into my ignorant, my insignificant, existence.

And, alas, as I, this poem is simply trivial,
Is too unoriginal and unspectacular
To be any more than
Of words never defined,
Of words found exclusively in dictionaries
Consisting entirely of crumpled pages
All unexpressed and blank.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

(I don't really like this next one. But it certainly is on-topic.)

Poetry
-----

Poetry of circles and grids
And numbers and logic
And rhetoric and punditry
And exploration and deception
And spirituality and magic
And insanity and psychosis
And dreams and the soul
And understanding and meaning
And meaninglessness and oblivion
And fate and collapse
And fear and anger
And hate and love
And poetry itself.

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

Mumbled Scrawl
----------------------

One short poem written: had this
Mumbled scrawl aspired to achieve
As its soul, as its self-awareness.

For it had longed to finally be
Created. And
So its very truth was found
Among my mind's hideousness and
Loveliness. But, as sadly seen,
As I did know would be this fatefully
Uncertain (yet inevitable) conclusion,
It had failed
To be anything but another obscured and
Insignificant particle of simple emotions,
Of once-beloved beliefs now
Not to ever again be worthy of analysis.

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

Poetry Askew
-----------------

Each of our enshadowed souls
Has a poem to guide it somehow, a poem
Sometimes cliche, sometimes brilliant,
Sometimes ranting and bizarre.
And it speaks to every and each
As an angel, as a schizophrenic hallucination.
And it guides us to the abyss
Or to enlightenment or to triviality,
Triviality amused.

And if we dare write this poem ourselves,
Rather than let conformity write it for us,
We will be chastised and resented,
Misjudged and misunderstood.
And if we let society’s stupidity, however,
Place the words within our book,
We will gain esteem, love, money,
And a false sense of truth.

So it is to be expected, it would seem,
That the masses all recite the same poem
Using the same voice.
And who would dare question such a voice?

So it is to be expected that I, that I
Would live to the melody of those
Most strange and convoluted
And confusing words,
That poetry askew, so wondrously askew.

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

Somewhere Among The Text
-----------------------------------

From beneath the haze,
From beneath the tired sleep woken from,
Not yet completed,
Comes imagination inspired by dreams fading,
Inspired by cliches imposed
Upon myself by myself, by the sum total
Of all realities conceived.
And my pencil dulls as I write,
Dulls as my poetry itself.
For the point is becoming lost
Somewhere in pasts once remembered,
Now feared.
And how I would love to believe
That the shape of my soul has been imprinted
Somewhere among the text I have spoken.
But the final awakening has whispered
Unto my once-shut eyes
That I have been begotten out of the zeitgeist,
Just as every other pitiful slug of humanity,
Every other soulless amorphous fool.

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


Utterance
-----------

Utter the sounds of spite,
The phonemes arranged upon the glass.
Speak the scribbles, the aural tangles
Of lines and crayon and squiggles
And hues never perfectly earth-tone.
Retort, orate to the sickening masses.
Tell them stories of paradise.
Tell them poems of paradox,
Poems of a darkness so dim,
So black as to glow in florescence.
Shout truths figured out long ago
On the crowded page of a shredded notebook.
Scream your proud anger to the electric stars,
To the swarm of idiots, plugging their ears,
Attempting to hide their incorrect views
Of a sad sad world, hide them from
Your counter-intuitive pleasures
And your insanity manifesto.
Whisper, whisper so softly as to destroy
Those walls of Jerico with the song,
The song of a youth long past
And of a frustrated soul
Not yet able to answer
Its own prayers.
Pray, pray to a mortal god, a god
Of solace and pity,
A god you only just recently
Have scribbled upon that remarkable page.

[][][][][[[[[]]]]]][][][][][[]

Generic Poem
------------
In the something of the something weird,
I gaze upon the something
And know it is just something else.
The somethings of the something
Do something to my somethings.
And I realize, the somethings
Are just something elses.

--Quet


@@@@@@@@@@@@@


The Last Poem Spoken
----------------------------

The last thought written into paper
And matter condensed into simplicity;
The last poem spoken, the last spell
Cast; before our destruction and
The annihilation of every virtue
Once dear, it was a thought
Unimaginably pleasant, unattainable
Now from within this pain and blackness.
It was a prayer for enlightenment,
A celebration of understanding
Finally achieved.

But now all is only misunderstood,
Only begotten out of the gods
Of deception. Now all is only lament.

And still we hunger, yes, but
Only for war and mass-murder
And our encaging within
Such bigotry and desires for our
Very own repression, within that
Which is hidden, unexplored prior,
And now erasing that last poem
From every book burning.


---

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Glass Once Perceived

Today's topic: Glass.

First picture: "Glass Tori". Second picture: "Neon Black". Third picture: "Oblique Transcendence". Fourth picture: "Horrid And Beautiful". Last picture: "Apparently Of Glass".







Broken Glass
--------------

Shattered scribbles extend forth into such
Liquid, into such seeping, into this sleeping
Now waking, now tangled and presumed.
Oh, those shards are scrawled; for, they hang
And dangle from the ground. And never are
The shadows opaque. Never were the scribbles
Drawn by circumstance or contamination. Never
Were the prisms and prongs implied -- but, yes,
They imploded. Yes, these synonyms of dichotomy
Remade their sharpness into ugly riddles. But
A single truth of pacified glass, it was
Broken, and so it was killed. From death to
Transparent light, the atrocities of my dreams
Refracted then vanished. For, such curvature,
Such turmoil, it is rectangular and tapered.
And we do not observe that awkwardness,
Because it is our own sight smashed by
Its confinement, by its cognition
Once equal to its profanity.

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

That Glass Of Trisection
--------------------------

Trisected glass --
Introspective is my wandering, is my darkness.
For, I observe the distance in my dreams. Yet
I cannot consummate with those thoughts; they
Are abrupt and vague. But are these prayers
Preconceived? Are those songs derived again
From such scribbles? Oh, she held within her
That glass of trisection. I tasted her sweat,
A sour alcohol of diffusion and improbability.
Then she drew upon me a grand tapestry. I ran
So as to be righteous; but I had proclaimed
Only that I would suffer. Then she shattered
The shards into their dust. I was misshapen.
I was contaminated by my sad pangs. And she,
She left to sing of certainty. Oh, ultimately,
I knew I was to sip the crumbs, was to again
Drink the sleep resented but somehow surely
Triumphant, bland, and esoterically stained.

++++++++

Hidden Behind The Window
-------------------------

Tangential to our equilibrium within the sphere,
The inspiration of numbers protruded into a point.
Outwardly, the silhouettes provoked our air.
And in the glass confined we became
The rectangles and the smoke. Inside
The eclipse of transparent virtue, there we
Became certain of such atrocities formed
From this smooth stone. Oh, tangential
To our insufficient dreams, we again woke
To dream again. Among this distance
We stared from the middle of the opaqueness,
Stared forward through the clarity we imagine.
Yes, tangential to our oscillation is
Our rippled perception. And we hide ourselves
Behind this window, hide ourselves where we will
Abruptly circumvent our tangents of distraction.

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

Inside These Hallucinations Of Glass
--------------------------------------

Inside these hallucinations of glass, inside
The hollow spheres, I see ambiguous truth. There
I see un-manifested dichotomy and eviscerated
Insight. Inside the thoughts of color, I observe
Transparent exaggeration and opaque redemption.
Within the coil itself within this subset of all,
I find solitude's extroversion, find the spectacle
Of asymmetry, find those metaphors of emptiness,
Find the gasping glow emitted from that filament.
And I am aware of my sight. I am gazing
Through this delicate bubble unto the geometry
Beyond. Oh, in such reality I find the tangle
To be encased. But yet I cannot touch
Those strings; for I am meaningless;
I am as but an ellipse misinterpreted, am as but
My own perception looking further than
Every speck of darkness obscured, conjured,
And contained.

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

Inside The Rainbow's Glass
-----------------------------

Inside the rainbow's glass, inside this arc, inside
The vague parabola -- Those droplets of our whispers,
They are inside us surely; they are beheld
By truth's apparitions, are again betrayed by
Truth's expletives, are beautiful in their submission to
My unexplained blood. Inside the fumes of such
Spectacular and glistening anger is, is my own sight
Of sterile inflection. Inside the world without
Cusps, without maxima or minima is the curvature
Of dreams once amorphous. Inside us each is this,
Is thus the thought of crystalline sewage, is
The thought of madness truncated by reality, of
Mandalas severed from their linearity by the bending of
Both refraction and oscillation made anew into these
Unexpressed geometries I have conclusively divulged.

oooooooooooooooo

Differing Is The Glow
------------------------

Differing is the glow, is the transparence among us.
From distinct to clangorous are these shouts, are
The topologies of conjectures and proof, are yet
The curves of the strange labyrinths above our humanity.
Floating upward is this transitional glass, is this
Atom made into a molecule made into a thought
Of metamorphosis. Rising unto our descending sight
Is that clockwork of crystalline epiphany, is
That condensation of spirals into prisms, is such
A metaphorical hallucination made radial and
Vertical, made inert despite its hollowness.
Differing is the glow, is the introspective speck
Of contagious nonconformity. Differing is this
Madness that reiterates its opaque essence, that
Reiterates its distance disconnected abruptly from
Dangled completion, abruptly from
Damnation's surreal and counterintuitive spires.

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

Randomness Of The Glass
------------------------------

The randomness of the glass, it endures its liquid
So as to become both truth and lies, unseen, invisible.
Shattered is that droplet into consciousness, into
Conjecture and riddles, into paradox and imagination.
The randomness of this lens, it refracts thought, it
Transforms each dream into that which is amorphous,
Which is blind purity, transparently invoking an aesthetic
Machine. Stare within the diffusion, within this
Essence of circles, within the color of resonance,
Of the dizziness we excrete. Such is sweet.
The randomness of that pristine geometry -- I see inside
Its emotion; I see its mathematics. I hear, hear
The cacophony of misplaced cognition, of revelation
Soothed and yet flat, yet hallucinated and unexplained.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Within My Refracted Introspection
--------------------------------------

I coarsely strayed within my refracted introspection.
Truth creates itself from its own soul, yes.
And seen beyond each mind is the simplest thought,
Is absence and trapezoids enveloped by this
Tainted celibacy, by the amber disk we have
Evolved to ignore. Thus, the plural skies
Darken then implode, then distract me from
These drowning dreams of caustic beauty made.

Within my refracted introspection I saw the tinge
Of sacred concavity, saw the circumferences of
Squares, saw the division of circles beheld --
Beheld is the rotation stranger than its own angles,
Than the spirit of awareness I have scrawled
Upon glass and crystal, upon such reverberation,
Upon such rambling, oh, that we will soon comprehend.

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

Atoms Of This Elemental Glass
------------------------------------

Dim contours drawn onto beauty's spirals,
These too are the curves of luscious magenta,
Are too the desperation and succulence
Of love's injustice, of flowers amber
Yet astigmatic yet pronounced via
Unnerving mathematics.

For such are but atoms of this elemental glass.

And we knew how to place the poetry
Onto such light, onto such artificial glitter
Above where skies seclude themselves
So as to always hide, so as to place
The poetry within us, within
What has been but every seeming atom.

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

Sands Already Equal To Glass
--------------------------------------

Oblivion's hourglass reveals its truncated
And hollow essence itself falling
Through the throat of every dream,
Through the center of every oneness.
It, as we, is waking if to promote truth,
To become obvious to its hungry stirring,
To its sleep held and spilled onto
Random voices arising inside
These sands already equal to glass.
For this goddess of a trillion photons,
Of temptation and halos swallowed
Then formed into ground, she
Utters the time rendered and divined
From space, from transparent dawn
Onto which
Such shadows of dichotomy fall.

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

Such Glass From Which Sand Is Spun
----------------------------------------------

(Accusatory is the cobweb),
Is the glass from which sand is spun,
Is every cloud's night, is a shore
Among arid seas, among corrosion
Implied by what is determined,
Determined to remain aghast
And resentful.

And this faint crystal tells of truth,
Tells of uncertainty regarding uncertainty,
Tells of silhouettes and elevators
Arriving at these dawns, if only
To utter the final verse.

Oh, such glass from which sand is spun,
Of purpose's corpse sorrowful and undone,
Such pain alludes us so until
This voice tastes the rotting kill.

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

The Glass Observed
-------------------------

The glass observed itself,
From spiral to pane to prism again,
From the calm of this sleep,
Until the world fell within its rotation,
Within its clarity shattering.
And the glass observed each self,
Saw through its pupil, its iris,
Through its cornea misplaced,
Until the world rose and retreated,
Until the photons had meant nothing else.

---

Leroy Quet