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

Insects

Beware the meager bug. It is more than you could ever imagine.

Top picture: "Undefined Are The Insects". (I admit, this isn't a picture that is literally about insects.)
Bottom picture: "Geodesic Spider".




This Bug Of Scribbled Circumstances
-----------------------------------------

And the insect cringed beneath this voice.
And it hid beneath its exoskeleton of imagination.
For here the loops intersected the circle.
Here the creature descended into itself,
Into the shell of brilliant transparency.
For there among the hard darkness was
This bug of scribbled circumstances.
And it crept upwards into its vanishing. It
Devoured the vision of itself, devoured
The shapeless aspect of its possibilities.
For it extracted its seclusion from within,
From within its trite existence as certainty
Without form, yet provoked.


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

This Insect's Halting Perfection
-------------------------------------

The shimmering and slanted shell of this
Topaz bug, it glistened yet remained
The cinder within. It stirred itself,
And floated despite its absorbency. Yes,
It, this insect's halting perfection, it bled
The dim daylight upon such an edge. And
There, here, among the blandness was what
Has defiled this charisma. For beneath
The body of plush crumbs and dire elegance
Was the difficult glow we inspire so as
To shudder and expel those poignant
But elliptical silhouettes each succulent
And hopefully strained between that crevice,
Between a beautiful bug and its saddened skin.


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

Such Is The Bug
-----------------

Carelessly entwined, arachnids with lepidoptera
Each twirl in their redemption; each arise
From vowels and thunder so as to coil inside
Their ambidextrous voice. Ah, such is the bug.
This is the crustacean without form, without any
Madness otherwise adroit. This is the insect
Flung forth into strange trajectory, falling
As syllables upon cement, upon overt tapestries
Made poignant. Carelessly entwined, such flesh
Becomes distant from those exoskeletons.
And they are the seeds without amnesia. They
Have been the spectacular speck underneath us,
Under the vast air of our despicable perversion.
For the bugs are jagged, are afloat, are docile
And bilateral and enclosed within the cusp,
Within the purity of certainty rather miniscule.


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

Inside My Exoskeleton
-----------------------

I was an insect. I was the iridescent grub, was
The flying caterpillar, a butterfly never obtained.
I was a magnificent cockroach -- for, I created
The world inside where I scurried. I was
The mosquito devoid of libido. I was
The bee careful in my sting. I was but
A fly loved for my triteness. I was but
A moth, transparent in my dimensions.
I was the locust -- but yet I hid, surely.
I was the beetle. And I surrendered again, yet I
Did not die. I was a grotesque bug, yes. And
Thus I did not adore humanity. I was
An insect; and therefore I became complete.
Oh, I remained inside my exoskeleton, remained
Underneath my actuality. For, there I was despised.

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

A Superstitious Insect
-----------------------

That insect's only virtue was its disease. For, it
Was not to be devoured, because it was indifferent
To its inner disgust. And yet it itself feasted upon
The nectar within us each. It then regurgitated,
Destroying its purpose within such amber. It remained
The beast of our paranoia. It scurried into the sand,
Into the crevice above all equations. It hid there
Inside our exaggeration, inside the entanglement
Of human earth and pristine dimensions. It hid under
The truthfulness of our ironic lies. And it was
Disturbing and maniacal. It was the insect,
A bug that behaves superstitiously, but not as we.
It gazes too upon the stars, yet forgets
That it cannot see them. It is moist. It is
Slandered. It is but ignorant of its own wealth,
Ignorant of its own delicious breath resounding.

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

Parallel Wings
---------------

Parallel wings, each a tapered eclipse once
Made from parchment and glass -- they float despite
This meandering insect's own decapitation. Oh,
Vertically arranged are these thoughts devoid of mass.
They become the light that does not exist. And
Then they descend unto our begotten sadness,
Descend onto the tabletop of oblivious reality.
I am encased here beneath them. And so I think
Of trite contemplation. I grasp all meaninglessness,
And so it fails in its triumph. I compress
The world into the crevice in the sky. And I
Then ascend aloft; for I
Unfold those parallel wings. I am encircled. I
Am but a mindless creature, am but an ugly bug
Hidden inside my abstinence, inside the cloth
Of transparent and porous metaphors now weightless.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet