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.
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(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
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