Disgusted And Repulsed

What better topic to post on Thanksgiving -- traditionally the biggest eating day of the year -- that a blog about gross stuff?
(I'll turn you all into vegetarians yet!...)

Only one picture on this topic, thankfully: "Specimen".



Almost An Autopsy
------------------

Arriving upon the near surface of edges,
This savage gore expresses its iridescence.
But I am yet stranger. I am barely touching
The wondrous blood, am barely touching the
Undescribed guts of a misaligned species.
And I too am beautiful. I also am vague.
But I do not quite caress the red amber,
Nor do I become aroused by the stench.
Ah, I attempt to define and identify such
A clump of bilateral imperfection. I
Attempt to deny this tangle. But surely
It is hollow, or is it opaque? Surely
It is curvaceous and delicate. For, it
Falters and dissects its own turbulence,
Cleaving its superstition from its fragility.

========

This Guillotine
-----------------

My thoughts decompose, for they are grotesque. The
Blade of this guillotine sliced forcibly throughout
Our virtuous assumptions of color and photons.
And thus I observe the decapitation. Thus I see
The truncated corpse to be both gory and complex.
Oh, the head of this beast is hidden and still.
But the severed neck rises up to show us
Its disease. From inside this blood I notice
The vertebra and the esophagus, notice
The larynx halved by human sadism.
And delicate is the void now voiceless.
Delicate are the preconditions of death. Yet
I am brought to my own execution also.
For, the queue is minimal, as is life. And
All is mindless due to our pathetic intentions
And mental misshapenness.

++++++++++


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.

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

Gory Is The Neon
-----------------

Gory is the neon.
Aglow are the glands, the tumors, the ducts and vessels,
The porous organs, the tainted flesh.
Iridescent are the syrupy fluids that ooze from us.
Fragrant and glistening is the teratological decomposition,
Is the thought mangled by its neurons, by
Its celestial decay. Opaque is the splatter, is
The phlegm of our moist disease. And still,
Still it all is ambivalent and geometric.
Still, the filth that composes our truth, it
Resonates and yet perceives itself to be beautiful.
And in this pus is seen the spectra we have forgotten.
Ah, in the indescribable scum it is known
That this magnificence will metastasize. So we
Suckle the fermentation of our skin as we
Scar the awareness of our indistinct blood.

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

The Slaughter
--------------

Once, I was but equal to my own self, as I stared
Upon my shimmering life. And then, then I heard
The shouts of whispered evil. Then the monster came
And surprised my shy imagination. Then that beast
Grasped me, tearing into my tender thoughts with
Its horrid claws. And I never before had known
That I could ever understand such intensity,
Such misery, such anger.

Oh, then, as if infinity was simply zeroness, these
Fists and talons pulled at my flesh and its extremities.
And, thus, I grew sick as this devil tugged
And then -- exerting a force far beyond any I
Could have resolved -- it, despite the screams,
Shredded my being, rupturing my soul.

Then, thus, therefore, our viciousness wounded me,
Dissecting my body into an inexact and bloody existence.
Then I became that mangled conflagration, as I
Gazed onto my innards strewn and ghastly.
And then I became rancid. But surely, certainly
My naive dreams dispelled themselves until
Death resorted again to its haphazard euthanasia; for
Now I am shapeless, I am putrid and delicate
In my abbreviation, am delicate in my transmutation into
Yet the miniscule fodder for such carnivores each
Ironically beautiful, strange, and timid,
Each grotesquely asinine.

oooooooooooo

Of Such Concave Dissection
-----------------------------

Semi-symmetric are the lobes adjacent
To the stem, to that prong underneath.
Septic are the thoughts evoked. For in these
Reniform entanglements I remove surreal moisture.
And yet the stench is abstract, is mindful
Of its formaldehyde. Yet I sever this darkness
From blood and pus and peculiar fluids contained.
And, thus, I separate the stratum from rotation,
Separate cartilage from tendons still paranoid.
And I observe that stain and its oil,
Observe that globule secreted by glands elongated
And arched into this structure. I inspect
Perplexing filth encased within uncertainty
And strange shapelessness. Ah, I dare not taste
This meat. For assumed is the beauty of such
Metamorphosis, is the beauty of such concave
Dissection.

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

The Rotten Phlegm Of Ideal Possibility
--------------------------------------------

I delight in the cowardice we once regretted;
But then the tepid blood destroys us. But
Then the strangled thoughts endure us,
Endure their vacant and empty stains. But then
The certainty of uncertainty enveloped me;
It corroded such neurons, such voices aghast.
It became the music we deplore, devour,
Became the vastness we behold
And soon spite if to ravage these prayers
Of Oscillation, if to ravage the subtlety
Of our minds. Then the rotten phlegm
Of ideal possibility, it surely resolved
This multiplicity incarnated as what has
Been beloved, has been peculiar and stale.


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

Blister
---------

The protruding blister desired its painfulness.
And into it I stared, finding this
Which is but only curved and flat,
This which makes the viscosity itself fluid.

Oh yes, the blood and purity of what is
Absolute convexity, it dripped
Down inside the self-exploration which returns
To be me. And never again
Do I attempt to lance the blister,
For it is too unreal to concern me.

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

The Kill
-----------

Almost hidden (so it was)
From our humanity, from
Our bigoted dreams, it rested upon
The dirt, that earthen ground - - for it was
The kill.

And the beasts took it down
In indeterminate pasts, in unremembered
Contemplations; stalked it, attacked it,
Tore it apart.
And it now only bled,
Became nothing more than meat,
Less than the flesh which was once
Its sole epitome.
From every darkness came the vultures,
The lions, the hyenas, those who would
Feast on any opportunity of carrion,
Of satiation, on any possible fulfillment
Of the final lust.

And this gore disgusted no creature
Who wished a taste, no predator,
No scavenger. And it
Did not disgust us, we human beings.
For it was we who committed the slaughter.
It was her, our innocence, our
Once-virgin child,
Who was that which was slain,
Which has found desire,
Found her unexpected ascension.

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

(Had enough? No? Okay, one more.)

The Sore
-----------

Squirm, you maggots swarming.
Throb and bleed, for your gore is askew,
Is foul as all else
In this wretched conformist human mass.
You are the creeps, the festering stench,
That encompasses all in this
Once eternal sphere.
And such offensive monsters as you
Mate and dance, and scar our world.
And it succumbs.

Humanity oozes from the sore
That it has created,
That it has become.
And we are but a teratological tumor
Upon the heart of virtue and innocence,
The heart of paradise, a paradise now
Made sickly and disgraced
By our insatiable lust,
Our filth, our despicable excuses
For breeding, for existing at all.
No redemption can come to such evil.
For it has vanquished all mercy itself,
Vanquished all mercy for the crimes
Of tolerance and truth once desired.

----

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Petals Evoking Their Magnificence

Flowers is today's theme.

First picture: "Blasphemy Soothed". Second picture: "As A Flower". Third picture: "Astigmatic Cacophony". Fourth picture: "The Stem Drips Upward". Last picture: "Transmutation Of The Epiphany".






Yet The Blossom
-----------------

Cursively entwined and erupting from a stem,
The blossom redeems its parables. Within,
These petals of its rotation, it becomes
Undescribed, becomes luscious and tempted
By its libido of vertices and precognition.

Ah, for, truncated is the fuchsia among it.
Transposed is its imprecision upon reality.
And it explores the cosmos via its amazement.
And it flutters and flies and ascends,
Ascending to the magnificent clouds,
Each assumed to be such thorns. And it sleeps,
It succumbs to human contamination. But
Yet the blossom, the tangled flower, remains
Both vicious and righteous, both iridescent
And bland inside its confinement thirsting,
Inside its air of vague awareness begotten,
Of awareness now upright in that consumption.

==========

Stem
-----

The peculiar stem surrounds itself, returning again
To the flower of its vanity. And it drinks
Its own water. It breathes its own imagination.
And the stem becomes the ring, becomes still,
Becomes iridescent and depicted by those geometries.
Oh, the rain is inverted, as is the blossom.
And the thirst of this plant is eternal.
Its regurgitation is its salve. And it
Hungers for actuality and for dreams alike.
But then it simply sleeps. Then the magic
Envisioned is such parables becomes the juice
That satisfies these suffering petals.
For, then the fluid arrives, made from space-time
And from the nonconformity in which we partake.
Then the flower will proclaim its triumph until
It spites its resentful thoughts, each agape,
Each devoid of genesis or completion.

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

Shadow Of A Clangorous Mesh
-----------------------------

The shadow of a clangorous mesh was placed upon
An elliptical ground. And this maze was as plush
And striated as the flowers of misnamed colors,
As the leaves of spectacle and oscillation.
But I heard the flames, and I saw the ambiguity
Hidden inside and beneath this unfolded image. I
Knew that I was to taste the skin of beauty,
Of arousal. Yet I collapsed, as it, into my grasp.
And when I opened my fist so as to raise my fingers
Away from my throat, there was the shadow
Of a clangorous mesh. There was the truth of
Hypocrisy, of the spiral lingering among my soul.
There, within my palm, was sugar and its saltiness,
Was each asymptote evoked by the perversions inherent
In my enlightenment spun clockwise, spinning
Meaninglessly. Oh, seemingly so expressed was
That circumstance, was an extroverted tangle explained.

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

The Tulip Soothed
-------------------

Tilted and slender cones rising, floating in emptiness,
They each resolve to be the tulip soothed. And in
Those cups, I envision the transparent pearl, a
Conceited jewel remade. Oh, I deny those thoughts
Of vengeful dust. I instead grasp the flower,
And I taste its magenta. I know I will
Soon perceive its diagonality. But it still
Remains equal to my saliva. It remains
Esoteric but never vain. And it, the image,
Rotates and grows from unseen distance.
Yes, infinite is this stem. But it surely
Contains its own shapelessness. It surely is
Now but the tulip soothed. And I wither
Inside it, as I reach for truth's beckoning,
As I reach for the hallucinated darkness
I have wondrously suffered.


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

Again A Flower
-------------------

The universe
Is but a spectacular arrangement
Inspired by such phyllotaxis,
Intrigued by all the reincarnation of all,
By atoms in rotation about rotation --
Because this was as
The universe,
Was its irritation, irradiation, and perfection.

And irritating was this edge
Upon what is perfect,
What is within this that is where
My imagination and its flowering desires
Have still been as this perfume,
This vision of every transparent butterfly,
Each attempting to be seen by the voices
At the centers of a totality
(Of the totality again) of souls.

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

The Lily And The Claw
-------------------------

The lily and the claw, both have been damned;
Both hallucinate then exaggerate their wind
So as to reiterate such solemn redaction.
The lily evolves into mentality opaque and
Abstract, becoming the cocoon rather than the
Lepidopteron. And yet it flies. Oh, yet it glistens.
The claw expresses its breath, then rotates,
Then grows dim and pale. And yet it screams.
Yet it stabs at deeper mediocrity. Yes, this
Flower and this knife, they flutter within
Our rectification excreted and extreme. And yet,
Yet they crumble into their vision. Yet
They taste the amber void in which we too
Have arisen.

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

Every Blossom Understood
-----------------------------

A flower of spirals made, made again
From crystalline vibration, made
From each fluctuation and its glow
-- This is the recaptured helix, is
What shall be
Eternal in its variation, in its cosmology,
In its victorious night beholding such,
Such sight without dreams, yet still
A night without the salvation of priestesses,
Without redemption among this which remains
Simply instantaneous blood and its viscosity,
Remains to be its own clot dripping otherwise
From sharpened wounds, from the epitome
Returning to every blossom understood.

oooooooooooooooo

An Implication Redeemed
------------------------

Concurrently,
Her unjustified beauty thusly repelled,
But soon grasped at masculinity asserted and at
Femininity sustained. Then she took him,
And swallowed their thirst, recoiling not, yet
Becoming entwined in this causality.

And into the flower the fluid was wrought.

Awakened, that ovum had been superimposed
Upon the tincture of carelessness. And then
It waited; then it laughed, only to subdivide
In its iteration repeatedly beneath
The effeminate flesh she had forgotten.
And virtue metastasized, transforming into that
Which has scribbled shape. And human blood overtook
Its own timidity. And then it became mighty, became
Strange in its familiarity. It was translucent,
Although no one gazed through it. And soon,
In a distant future, it began via its completion.
Soon it uttered the only truth it knew: screaming,
Crying, and surely suffering within
Such a confrontation again.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Eclipses Themselves Obscured

Today's theme: Eclipses (both lunar and solar).

The first picture: "Ironic Eclipse". (I think I already posted this picture a while back.) Second picture: "Seek The Incomplete Eclipse". Third picture: "Distant Eclipse". Last picture: "An Eclipse Of Whispers".





It Is Not
-----------

This engulfed sphere, it does not resemble
A butterfly's wing or a simulation of a
Shattered oxymoron. It does not contain
The fluids of wind and life or love. It
Does not believe in triumph or temper.
And is does never growl. For, the curvature
Of the eclipse, it does not elongate, nor
Does it proclaim it is insane. And it is
Neither purposeful nor pungent. But yet
It is not quite quiet. For, it is not
A constituent of anything, but still it is.
Still it denies it is grotesque, denies
It is conforming, denies it is lumpy.
But somehow it is careless, or is it not?
Or is it transforming via the plagiarism
Of molecules, via its absence, via its
Shapelessness surely shallow?

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

My Shadow
-----------

My breath became my shadow. From my teeth, from
My corpse, the string flowed outwardly and into
That monochromatic and blurry silhouette. And
This darkness observed itself within me. And I
Became its translucency. For, my image glows
In its colors, in its shapes. But my shadow, it
Concerns itself with my dead truncation. It
Collapses into its suffocation among the cloth,
Among the magnificent tableaux. It flows through
The wisps of such a dim corona. It hides in its
Eclipse. For it is tempted by my own reverberation.
And I am surely distracted with this optical echo,
With the complicated nihilism I invoke via the light.
Yes, I am grasped by that umbilical, by that wind
Diffracted obtusely.

==========

A New Moon At Midnight
------------------------

A new moon at midnight, seen not by this
Eye above us nor by that which stares upwards
From below our human silt -- It soothes
The sanity we inflict. It stings the vastness
Within our refracted selves. And it perceives
The Earth to be translucent. For we are indeed,
Are surely strangely inert in our beauty, yes.

Ah, and the sun too evades its own shimmer.
But, unlike those lunar arctangents of introverted
Screams, the glow rises swiftly from the smoke
Of time.
Ah, unlike the eclipse yet synonymous with purity,
These starlit days provoke our parables, provoke
Our whispers unpronounced by any such air, provoke
Our whispers uninspired anew by any other amber.


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

Any Ellipsoid Of Any Darkness
-------------------------------

The ellipsoidal shadow is drawn upon miniscule light.
And in its shade is my indifference, is my forgetfulness,
Is each thought unmade and unpronounced. I behold
What I have held above my brain. And then
I overwhelm the sacred night; for it is dead in its
Magnitudes, in its treason. And, thus, the dawn obscures
That moon without eclipse. And yet I see its blackness
Ascending to its own torment. Thus, the earth transforms
A dim tantrum into such a sky. But I know that
Beyond every hexagon is eternity truncated surely.
Beyond every angry tear is our reality soothed.
Oh, this truth has parted from all humanity.
And it flies past every shadow of any shape,
Past any ellipsoid of any darkness once periodic,
Once afloat in the cosmic shame of our understanding.

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

Earthen Eclipse
-----------------

And daylight entwined itself with that dawn, with
The world below us, beneath our dim and uncertain aura.
As our earth of our antipode was lit, its entirety
Put us inside its shadow. For here we are yet
Always darker than the dusk, than the collapse
Of sky's fire and curvature's flames. Here we
Suffer from our own death, from the spell of
Vain demons each extraordinary in their falsehood.

Oh, daylight entwined itself with the sea and stone
Of fragrant forgetfulness. And upward it flew,
Downward it abstained, sideways it became
But my own night, it became but my sleep unwoken.
For, in this absurd dream I am
Angry and jagged and enraged; I am gazing
At a sky without stars, at a sun without any
Corona or glow, gazing at the hollowness which
Entices me, which equals our umbra coarsely betrayed.

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

The Mind's Eclipse
--------------------

The mind's eclipse darkens its breadth, becoming
This futility and its awkward thoughts. It
Encroaches upon my dream; it is that synopsis
Of hungry epitome extracted from the sand
Of entropy and ghastly randomness. Yes,
It provokes the sleep of nights traversed,
Provokes the daylight to distract ourselves
From the curvature of illumination and
Syzygy. Oh, the eclipse of my spirit, it is
Stranger than what I observe within the
Implosive scribbles each anemic and
Conjoined. For in this tangle I wake, I
Utter the syllables of ugliness and aesthetics.
In this occultation I embrace those tremors,
I reshape the skies' frightening odor so as
To never stare at any moon above such
An earthly crescent superceding.

ooooooooooooo

Above Each Eclipse
---------------------

A solstice dreamt, above each eclipse it is beheld.
Above these dark metaphors it returns the sky again
To a gibbous circle inside where the slender sun
Excludes its crescent crescendo from our fantasies.
For from our sleep is our world reconciled. From
This revolving carousel of tilt and curvature, there
We once grasped the superstitious diagonals drawn,
Once grasped the ellipsoid falling and spinning --
Because we too were vertical. And then, then
The cold solstice woke again our calculation. Because
We are now imprisoned. We are now thrown
And flung farther than ourselves; thus, the
Metronome of our youthfulness becomes its parallax,
Becomes such subdivided reality of human delineation.


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

For This Moon Was
--------------------------

Already ...
The points of useless dimension
Were heard carefully and inaccurately
Among the severed and sterile stars,
Among the eclipses of time, of space, of all.
And from these were spawned
Reality and its lover:
Dreams only invisible, sight
Only imagined, only known
Within its chaos and its darkest light.

For this moon was seen again
In incorrect skies; the sun had
Traversed geodesics quite ironic.
But this was not disquieting.
This was not our frightened inspiration.
Because the twisted science within
Each silent mind unknowing
And sleeping, it is the truest
Of unexpected contortions, the
Falsest of mathematics somehow
(In some ways) making sense, making itself
Into every revelation uncontained.

????????????????

My first poem about eclipses, I think:

Eclipse
---------

If the moon passed behind the sun,
Hid from us and our minds,
Then would we finally discover
That we have been foolish in our belief
That we are only dreaming
Just before the dawn, awaking
Precisely as the hue of the light touching
Our bedroom window, changes irreversibly
Just for each of us, but never for any other?


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Numerical

Today's theme is numbers and mathematics.

The first picture is "Even Into Odd". The second picture is "Four Times Five". (Note, the polygons around the edge alternately have 4 sides and 5 sides, and the polygon they surround has 4 times 5 = 20 sides.) The third picture is "More than Twelve". The fourth picture is "Additionally Multiplied". (Don't get this picture's name confused with "Another Addition Multiplied", which was a picture I posted in my blog-post about grids a couple months ago.) And the last picture is "X To The Y".






Around The Quasi-Maze
----------------------

Amongst the scribbled grid, amongst this
Machine of squiggles, we subdivided all
Into its constituents of anything. Around
The quasi-maze, we rotated slightly, we
Turned in our refraction always observed.
And then we engulfed the reciprocals of sums,
The sums of reciprocals. And there upon
This helix, the wisps determined our
Subjective dreams. There, in this reality
We have surrendered, we become flat, and yet
We become precise, if simply theoretical. Ah,
Amongst the convergence of irradiant tableaux,
We trace the exactness of our duplication.
But in this assumption, we have pretended, we
Have imagined certainty and disenchanted sleep
To be awkward, to be sketched inside each
Thought of enumeration purposefully revealing.

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

Reciprocals Added Then Summed
-------------------------------------

Obsessed are these ample abstractions
With their reciprocals added then summed.
Oblivious to such just dreams, we endure
The tremors of our numerals,
Endure the equations we also pray to.
Observed, this earthen sleep wakes us
So as to show us its calculations.
And we deny the froth its victory,
Deny the physics that have advised us
Of the uncertain linearity, that have
Added then summed the ratios of amplitude,
Of comparisons quite aesthetic yet unproved.

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

Of Every Reciprocal Manmade
-------------------------------------

If I had asked of flamboyant grids,
Of dire hues themselves within us,
Themselves alone among loops acquainting
Each edge with every vertex with
All mazes devoid of solution --
Then
I would have seen those desires
Inside my purest mind, would have
Tumbled and bubbled into a foam
Fading from below this sky, would
Have cut the worlds from voices
Of the ellipses, from unreal plaid
Stirring the sounds among us
Into alchemy and equations
Of every reciprocal manmade.

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

Prisms Of Multiplicity
----------------------------

Of controversial indecision; we demand that misplacement.
We put integers into these edges so as to extract
The minimal mazes from such ambiguity. Saturated
With septic squares are the grids of comprehension.
I could have found my spirit wondering if it too
Was precise in its diameters, if it was also its
Intersections within the enigmas we dare desire,
We dare to encounter.
And I ask this question of zeroness, ask if it invokes
The prisms of multiplicity. For riddles collide reassuringly.
For the corners of finitude divulge their shame.
They detach their air from their paper. But yet
The graphite spills itself into un-mended vision,
Into incompletion finally made pastel and dead.

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

The Intervals Dividing
----------------------------

The intervals dividing our purpose,
They are made into infinitesimals
Into zeroness as before. And
In the dullness of our shadows
I see inside what seems to have been
But dreamt of walls rising to form
A simple maze, surely. For
Each line drawn within the passages
Is approaching a bizarre asymptote,
Approaching infinitesimals and zeroness
Again as before, as has always been encircled.

ooooooooooooooo

The Theorem Not Made
------------------------------

A quantity assessed, this angle subdivided,
This shaded line ascending, becoming
The theorem not made into any game,
Into any other existence but these,

But of these functions each intervening
And interwoven and containing
Their purpose via their edges,
Via/by the counting of zeros, by
The prism observing its expression
Of the palindrome polygonal.

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

Zero And Its Multiples
-------------------------------

I am only a ratio
Of 1's to 0's implied
By their own arrangement,
Am only an integer unmisplaced,
And, consequently, my salvation remains
...Among the simplest emptiness --

And so each void is but this ratio
Of purity inherent in zeroness
And of position insightful and within
Resurrected mystery,
Within, out of, and
Into
These absolute angles
And divisions constructed from
What is
Zero and its multiples.

???????????????

A Simplest Set Of Dimensions
--------------------------------------

The die never did roll those integers
(Whether 5 or 6). Yet never known
Were the bubbles' sizes, somehow similar
And not varying but from
A simplest set of dimensions.
One, two, three, four, again, again;
And then I forget what was written
In bizarre visions of incomplete dice
And of bubbles conforming to themselves.


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

These integers
-----------------

The integers and their orientations
Rose up in benign mutiny;
They became the purity and revolution,
Became of idea and of concept,
And were remade into their image created
Out of themselves and into ourselves.

The integers, they became understanding,
And transformed each into this
Magnificent game, and transformed into
That which is abstraction
And yet is illuminated
And sharp and curved.

The letters composing each atom,
They rebelled,
But remained not
Any less than desired peace,
A peace not hypocritical;

They revolted against
This very enforcing
Which has attempted to place
Pieces and numbers within
An amalgam once devoid of levity.
And conquering themselves,
These integers achieved
Freedom, achieved
Their OWN, but truthful, mathematics.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Scribbles

Today's theme: Scribbles.

First picture: "Visions Carved From Abstraction". Second picture: "Calligraphy Contrite". Third picture: "A Spiral, A Scribble, A Halo". And the last picture: "Vibrato".





Of Illegible Scrawl
----------------------

I phrased the visions spoken
In terms of illegible scrawl.
And these blotches of pastels, they
Tasted so sweet, so benign.
Yet I could barely interpret and decipher
The meaning to be divined in the patterns
Of the abacus calculating the incalculable.
And I stared at these random lines painted
In intricate and unordered tableaux,
Drawn as part of the task never completed,
These edges of the grand polyhedron uttering
The excuses of the gods, those pleas
For love and meaning shouted by those
Who are the most loved and most profound
Of all.
I fell into my own spirit, my sickness
Attempting to find its own cure.
And there, there in my mad soul,
I formulated the question never asked,
Answered the question never considered.
There I smashed the abacus in an attempt
To wake from this dream of scribbles
And hieroglyphs and gods all occupied
With their psychosis within the song
Written by the uncertainty of space-time
Convoluted somehow into a universe
Known only to our madness.

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

Inside The Scribbles
----------------------

We each drew our minds inside the scribbles
Of our enlightened metaphor. And there
Within those thoughtless brains we found
The tainted anger and sleep we have yet
Become again. There within we discovered
The strange shape of our souls. Abruptly
The youthfulness we endure reiterates
So as to be made from form and paper, so
As to rectify the cursive cusps of imprecision.
Abruptly the aged existence we deny, it
Transforms each squiggle into the scrawl into
The assumptions of beauty. Abruptly we die,
But are then interned among our position
And direction and distance that we once achieved,
That we once drew so haphazardly upon.

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

Consensus Of The Scribbles
----------------------------

The consensus of the scribbles, the concurrence
Of the indescribable tangle of inked essence;
In this labyrinth of quadrilaterals despised, I
Envision my destiny despite my longing. I
Hallucinate vaguely, for I am ludicrous.
But assuming the sketched truth of misnomers, I
Divine the spiral's ellipsoid, divine
The ellipsoid's spiral.
And forward again, I must depict such pronouns,
Depict such predictions of impending circumference.
And I glean these tableaux from each page
Of stirred topology imploding. For, in the prayer
I am vacuous and valiant. In the scrawl I am
Soothed, yes, by the finality of an oracle untelling.

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

Scribbled Halos
---------------------

And from scribbles, it was formed,
This halo alone without an angel.
Oh, salvation is derived from tiniest glass,
Derived and spun out of shapelessness,
Out of clockwise gods destined to avoid
Every shattering of temperament and solitude.
But such is indeed alone.
I salted this sky so as to kneel
Before uncurved mazes each embarrassed,
Each hiding throughout the horizon above us,
Above integers without edges, above
Stillness without platitudes, above again
(Psychedelic pizzas and) scribbled halos
Wandering their purpose for what
Has been assumed by truth to embrace all.

oooooooooooooooo

Scribbles Made By Darkness Obscured
-------------------------------------

I have always, as I once had, seen the other distances
Of dreams and symmetric ambiguity. I have
Woken so as to wonder of these abstractions.
I have returned to triumphant rage more ghastly
Than the dawn. And then I see again the crux
Of sleep's emphatic transcendence. For strange
Is our placement within this space, is our
Existence ascending sideways unto another substance.

Ah, I wonder where I am that others recite to me
Their poetry of visions. For I become that place,
Become the magnificent appreciation for these
Serendipitous shapes excreted by chaotic neurons
Each enclosed among the self, among such
Scribbles made by darkness obscured, made by
The other distances of dreams, by symmetric but
Ambiguous metaphor.

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

Forgotten And Invisible Scribbles
---------------------------------------

Forgotten and invisible scribbles exhume
Our youthful uncertainty. For then within
The tilted mandala of our spirits' assumptions
We find the rotation to be truthful, to be
The innocence condemned by such a sacrifice.
For we sever and draw the epitome of shape
Upon the tangled page. And from beneath
The fluid's secreted expression rises the ugliness
We pursue, rises the resonance we endure.
From beneath the imperfections of our childhood
Rises the patterns surely to be elongated, rises
The mindless prisms we had spoken of, rises
The intertwined threads of crayon and conclusion.

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

The Scribble's Beauty
-------------------------

Enigmatic is the scribble's beauty, is
The trampled image once designed
So as to be the incarnation (the incompletion)
Of youth, of simplicity, of revelations
Utterly without composition, of truth made
To be precisely as it desires itself to be,
Made so as to glimpse at us, so as to
Imagine the simmering creations
Both desolate and dark, both
Spilled and linear and curved,
So as to imagine the invisibility defined
And drawn by coarse and crude intentions.


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

Efflorescent Scribble
---------------------------

This, an efflorescent scribble, has been made
Somewhat triumphant, despite the ganglia
Of spacetime compressed and composed
From only angular spirals, from only
The thwarted rain which stuns this earth,
Which grows and rotates and bubbles
So as to resist every curvature, so as to
Resist every clarity still and remaining
As glass refracting the drop's very purpose,
Still and remaining the scribble designed
So as to be
Symmetrical although juvenile, to be
Surreal although trite and certain, certain
And sure of the chaotic mantra it has relegated
To the forgotten rectangle where circles laugh.

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

Astigmatic Scribbles
------------------------

Astigmatic scribbles empty our sight
Of ironic darkness in well-lit pupils,
Of these savage and saintly verses,
Each relishing the very coldness
Found in such whispers. For found again
Are abrasive conclusions (concussions)
Spoken of as before, spoken of in
Tired but caressed composition
Awakened but then spilt onto randomness,
Bringing this performance to what
Is but the unexpected crescendo, to
What is yet solitude tamed
And made into its vastness ravaged.

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

Incorrectly Scribbled
--------------------------

Incorrectly scribbled
Was each uncertain maze,
Was each fantastic but crude
Pencilled line
Of color yet invisible, of
Equations yet puzzling, of
Circles unfilled and zero in radius,

..Of scribbles

Bent into straightest rotation,
...Into cursive so askew,
...Into
This cursive failing to be anything other
..Than of the most carefully drawn
... .... And indecipherable tangle.

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

Among Scribbles
---------------------

One final scrap-book containing
Every permutation which is every poem,
One final song written
From notes finitely invisible, infinitely
Irradiant ...

Within once will have once been,
Will have achieved
What was this which will be,
The smudging and erasing of all
And its insignificance (its obscurity),
Its own consciousness
Now barely remembered ...

Remembered barely as only itself a memory,
As this hidden among the unseen vacuum,
Among scribbles without apparent meaning,
But explaining the exact shape of this
Which claims to be our very soul.

---

Leroy Quet

Imagination Once Conceived

Today's theme: Imagination.

Only one picture: "Imagination Coinciding".


Dark Silk
-------------


Diffused within this imagination distantly seen
Is my moist skin I once spun, I once made
Into the deepening uncertainty caressed yet,
Yet still among our stirring humanity,
Among the very triviality which despises us.

I engulf this puritanical sheen, this foil,
Just beneath triplicate erasings ever carved
From paper a cataclysm and casualty of width,
From pages anew folded into one circumference,
Of circles aware of what has always threatened
Our emergence, has threatened our surface,
Threatened our black cobweb's stunning breath,
Threatened again
Our dark silk's diffusion incapacitated but round.


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

Specious Is This Brain
------------------------

Specious is this brain, my mind, within itself.
For it oozes and becomes granulated again. It
Equals the synapses, the neurons of thoughtlessness.
And it excites its own electricity, only to soothe
The viciousness inherent in its plaid dreams.
I place these atoms of imagination upon the circle,
Then tremble -- for such a dichotomy is cylindrical.
I place the clockwise flesh upon its epitome
Of instinct and hallucination. And I denied it.
For it is all my purpose and soul. It is
The entirety I find revolting. And thus I am
Septic, am grotesque, if only throughout my
Perilous blood. And I redeem those reciprocals
Painted and vaguely deep. Because specious is
My brain, is its wonder selfishly waning.

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

Our Sanctuary
------------------

Within the stale clay, within this froth, is surely a
Cavernous cocoon. Inside that imagination
Carved into situation, into splendid circumstance, is
Our sanctuary of darkness. There in that encirclement
Is the labyrinth we enter, hoping to remain trapped
Among its infinite walls. Deep beneath our sadness,
Beneath the trampled floor, deep under the edgelessness
Of a dim sky, is the hollow in which we hide.
Above the zeroness of all thought, above this pit
Which corrodes our souls, we are secluded again,
We are encased in forgetful beauty. We are severed here
From ambiguity and flesh, are severed from the shadows,
From the very blindness that has been our certainty.

oooooooooooooooo

Of Introspective Dragonflies
-------------------------------------

These desires for desire intrigue us yet, so that we
Cry then imply that the tragic night is our sleeplessness.
These forgotten circles encompass such insomnia,
Encompass the simplicity of autumn's rain. Ah,
Consequence reiterates the vanishing impurities found
Underneath forlorn tapestries each psychotic and
Dismal, each provocative yet distant yet pitiful
Yet awkward. And then these desires refract my seclusion,
The seclusion of meaningless diameters, refract
The incoherent words unperceived. Because
Thoughtless is that which confounds us, is what
Inspires the imagination to become nonexistent.
Thoughtless is the triumphant spectacle of purpose,
Of coarse collapse, of introspective dragonflies.
For they
Are somehow vaporous but sweetly pretending.

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

Imagination Peculiar And Suppressed
---------------------------------------

Inside the shapeless sunrise, I saw what is
But hollow glass. I saw the continuity
Of haphazard whispers each immobilized
By their exaggeration. Inside these parallelograms
Drawn underneath that overwhelming cloud,
I saw the tinge of misplaced spectra, I
Heard the determined foam flare and fume.
I heard and I knew that this random void has been
Resounding, knew that that corrugated rotation
Is our sweet salt, is the dawn which encloses
Every dark atom within its ash, within
Its transparent glow, within the strangeness
That we might have divided, divided into
Imagination peculiar and suppressed.


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

Imperceptible Dreams
-------------------------

Imperceptible dreams retain their purpose,
Retain their abstraction and convergence.
This is why these pleasures seduce, is why
The tinge of humorous amusement still
Concerns the spirit within our agitation.
This is why the dilapidated imbalance
Reeks of itself and of our incurable growth.
And fostered too is this enigmatic scream
Of a multitude of prisms, of the
Milieu made from such scribbled crumbs, from
Our crudeness entwined with imagination, entwined
With subtle blasphemies incredulously divine.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

Imagination Never Itself To Be Conceived
---------------------------------------------------

Forgotten, I could not envision
The dimensions unseen but still
Explainable yet. Forgotten
Were these spheres irradiant,
These cubes made of space and
Dreamt-of collages drawn out of prayers.

Forgotten
Are such theorems that naively believed
In their faith, naively saw
Their own sight from above
The labyrinth's walls, from upon
Unclear spectra pretending
To be describable with imagination
Never itself to be conceived.

Oh, these images inaccessible are
To be always hidden from an opaqueness.
For they are feared by my psychosis,
By my insanity oblivious
To that
Which was long-before remembered, to this
Which was once the divinity of my soul,
Once of a deity refused.

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

As Imagination Truncated And Timid
---------------------------------------------

The finite expression of all:
As blood; as emotion; as fate uncertain
Yet rejoicing in its very falsehood;
As imagination truncated and timid:
This is that which impedes us.
This is that for which we raise
Our grasp unto the eternity beyond
These universes and stars illusionary, only
To conform. This is
That same conformity ... And it
Is us. Oh, I lament.
For our most complicated thoughts are
Threatening to become only seen
As simple integers. For our most
Visionary and brilliantly glowing dreams
Are threatening to become nothing but
Reality.

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

Magic-Lantern
------------------

The flickering dreams
Played upon the shadow cast
By the strange and utterly incomprehensible
Surfaces plotted by the very imagination
Which has born from it those hallucinations
Seen on the inside of my eyes, those
Demented flames within this most inspired,
And yet so idiotic, magic-lantern.

And out of that which is our final asylum
From these realities of self-destruction
And mindless zealots all in agony,
All screaming and stabbing us with
Their words and hatred, rose
The illusion, the nightmare more desirable
Than that seen with waking sight.
Out of this cinema of the soul came
An ironic salvation, a poem
Much too beautiful to leave us, when read,
Anything but unconscious, but intrigued,
To leave us anything but irradiant.

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

Substance of the Mind
---------------------------

What exactly is the substance of the mind?
Blood and imagination.
Neurotransmitters and the structure
That permeates the universe’s vacuum,
The energy that is the soul
Of everything.
And our perceptions become our waking dreams.
And those dreams are the flux,
The quantum states which become
God and number,
The music that echoes throughout the cosmos,
The unseen rainbow,
The lust of angels, the hate of demons,
The atoms that compose us
As trillions of words
In this most fantastic epic poem
Within an unexplainable sleep.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Winds Gusting Breezily

The theme is wind and air.

No pictures today. After all, wind is invisible.

--

I just wrote this poem yesterday:

Indescribable Pinwheel
-----------------------

We grasp at the indescribable pinwheel.
Yes, it is spinning despite our thoughts.
Yes, it intertwines with our hands, and we
Become the rotation within us. Yes, we are
Surreal and vague. We are rectangular, yet
We perceive ourselves to be round, to be
Circular in our vanishing. Ah, we grasp
The spiral surrounded by glass. Ah, we gaze
Into such refraction. And the shadows
Tilt in their resolution. They turn too,
As the pinwheel, about our aesthetics.
We curl and bend and reiterate the breeze.
For, we are ambidextrous and androgynous.
We are created from our motion immersed
In those trapezoids of curvature and
Its impending wings, in its eddies, in
Its whirlpools truncated but somehow frail.

+++++++++++

The Bending Breeze
--------------------

Oh, the bending breeze triumphed against this
Stagnant wind within us. And I woke to be
Afraid and putrid. I woke to sleep anew.
And I forgot the gusts, for they despised me.
I remembered the bizarre placement of air upon air,
Of voices heard inside that crescendo. Ah,
The turbulence beyond my ceiling, it was roused
By my motion. And I exhaled, hoping for exactness.
For, in this dire earth I am saddened,
Am angered by the hideous opaqueness. But I
Will breathe upon all magic, will ascend as
My face, ascend above us each, and mutate
Into the simple conclusion, into reality made
Of its consequences, made of all triteness
Now evoked, now placid and emerging.

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

Not about wind per se, but about the turbulence of the universe, which wind epitomizes.

Convection
---------------

And this fluid, our universe, boils.
It churns itself through its own eruption,
Via its single collapse out of
Thoughtless thorns, from out of the depths
Of convection, of each mantra spun.
For unsightly helixes tear at space
And at its vacuous yet solid yet incestuous
Topology. For it serves this mundaneness.
It serves only lust and our souls' ambitions
To be simply stone, to be simply blood,
To be but scrawled epitomes each wondering
If gradients scraped from reality can
Resist this skin.
And beauty's windchimes
Talk of that reality, sing of worlds
Enduring yet subtle, enduring but
Flatter still than any ellipse,
Than any fluid containing
Such relics as our own, as those among
The silt, among the void we have captured as if,
As if it bubbled, as if it too was boiling.

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

This Windmill
---------------

The wheel spun around and away from its
Horizontality. And above it fell the air,
Turning this windmill within such gusts, within
The echoes of elaborate spheres and awkward
Concentricity. And the propeller remained
Among its counterpoint. And it grasped its
Flight; and it concealed its equations. And
It spun, spinning as each neuron's dream,
Spinning as every abstraction of symmetry
Confused. Those blades tore at my thoughts.
And I was grateful. I touched the axis
Of this circle. Then I fell back, back into
The unimagined wind. Then I was flung,
As such gaseous reality, along with those
Turbulent breezes. Oh, I now know the triumph
Of our exploitation, know of the transmutation
Of simple kinetics drawn through the spindle,
Through the clockwise invocation of a mundane assembly.


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

That Gust Belongs
------------------

A cusp above it, almost a cusp below it, this blob
Of fuchsia liquor drips onto the air. And that
Wind is telling in such a cosmic weathervane. Oh,
That gust belongs within a prism of uncertainty
And shape. So, pressing my fist upon that point,
I cut into my anger. But still it denies me.
Still, it swirls and gurgles among the light.
And I drink the potion's droplets. But they
Are not a salve for my thirst. Yes,
I am moist again against the stone screams.
I am distant but somehow near within
The indirect angles seen, within the cusp above
And slightly below us. For, there the emptiness
Is replenished, is overflowing in its satiation.


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


Tornado
---------

I knew that the wind upset my dream. And in this
Dark sky I saw the shape, I saw the epitome
Of death, of hellish agony. In the blackish clouds
I saw all reality spinning. And I knew I was dreaming;
Therefore, inevitable was the storm.

Ah, protruding downward was the proboscis of a
Ravenous god. This fear within us descended until
It became the filth it upheaved. And towards us
Came the thunder, came the ghost of darkness.
Towards that truth I held sacred came this apocalypse.
And the roar was opaque. And the night overcame us.
And we hid beneath ourselves. Oh, the passage
Of the wind, of that explosive breath of Satan,
It, I knew, was always impending. Oh, it is never
To be beyond our dream awakened or vicious or
Exaggerated. Yet it is surely to be again such a prong
Evoked by air and its assertive superstitions.

ooooooooooooooooo


And Then These Currents
--------------------------

The elegant sands of this fluid's emergence
Swirl and oscillate and transform into again
This superposition, translate into the froth of
Spectacular grit. Oh, withered and wisping are
The crevices that become the smoke that becomes
This uttered silt within us each. And then
These hues of auras gasping, they subdivide yet
Into transparent rain, into the wind made flat.
And then these currents in the midst of our dreams
Release themselves so as to conjure this
Which is their continuity, which is surely
The inspired convolutions of such parallel air.

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

Finally, an old one.

Intertwined Gusts
----------------------

The intertwined gusts of this convoluted air
Aspire to rectify, to become their laughter,
To become the scrawl upon such an abacus.
The intermingled gasps of these extroverted gods,
They amplify and beckon unto that topology.
They retract and extend unto that shallowness,
Unto an astigmatic image surely alluring,
Surely blown throughout by particles of concern.

And the invisible wind overtakes us, becoming
The darkness beneath these clouds. And then
The evaporation exploits us, transforming into such
Exalted whispers, into exaggeration only imprecise.


Leroy Quet

Light Glowing Colorfully

Today's theme: light, color.

Almost all of my pictures relate to color somehow. But here are some that are particularly on-topic.
First picture: "A Glow Circumvented". Second picture: "Reddish Green". Middle picture: "A Prism Once Conclusive". Fourth picture: "Prismaz". Last picture: (simply) "Light".








Yellow And Purple
-------------------

The tincture of the tints create within me
Truth's contradictions. Balanced upon their
Symmetry, such colors become dichotomy and
Its complement. Oh, both yellow and purple
Distract me from such oxymora. But yet
I see in the composition of opposition
The allure of every calculation made. And
This triumph of astigmatism is metallic.
Yes, it is fluid and transparent, and still
It remains more opaque than glass. Still,
The yellow and the purple tempt my darkness.
They tempt my aesthetics transforming.
For, once yellow was ugly then beautiful.
Then afterward the violet aroused me. But
Now I am transfixed by each constituent
Of the chord; I am certain I am vague,
Although those hues are perfect in all
Coordination.


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

I wrote this one only yesterday:

Unto Those Colors
------------------

Formed as a pristine stone, this glass spheroid
Was devoid of bellicose constituents. And
Such light from beyond it, from beyond ourselves,
It flung itself into the angled edge. And then,
Touching that lens, the colors diverged,
Becoming their own bending sadism. Ah,
Within the transparent solidity, there all
Was diagonal and enlightened. There the
Photons were remade and then made ignorant.
And, finally, from this egg emerged
That refracted profanity, emerged explanations
Each surreal, emerged magic's theorems and
Mundanity's hallucinations. For, from the rock,
This light expressed its essence. Then
It continued, ascending again unto the cosmos,
Unto the indecision within us, unto those colors
Created from their category, created
From their wondrous magnification.

+++++++++

Stereoscope
------------

Oh, we gaze vainly into the stereoscope, looking through
A vague lens. And thus we believe in the deception.
Thus, we perceive the convexity of concavity, perceive
The very glass of such a window denied. Oh,
We gaze unto a careless dream, a world of
Shimmering stains. And these colors enlighten
Our assumptions of dimension. But we still
Invoke the flatness that is our shame. We
Still imply within our sight this destiny made
From photographic geometry. For, in that mesh
Is seen dichotomy, is seen left versus right, is seen
All versus anything. And then the dim lamp betrays;
And we somehow mock those memories; we
Somehow resolve our metaphors of imagination
Between our minds' elaborate creations, each of which
Is diffuse and refracted in its horizontality.

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

Rainbows Of Venus
-------------------------

Should I have seen these rainbows? --
The rainbows of Venus, oh,
They intersect purest truth to become
The strangest light darkening, to
Be the stilts we (as madpeople) use
To trample over these careless numbers
Frustrating their temptation ...

The rainbows of a thin world
Utter the emptiness if yet to remain
Within the storm created from this
Which is our determination, which are
Colors far from our understanding,
Far from places and pleasures
Sometimes seen through this glass of stone.

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

Each Hue Of The Spectrums Multitudinous Glow
---------------------------------------------------

I had forgotten to invent the colors. For they
Were too withered to be complicated, were
Too entrancing to be observed. And I held
Each hue of the spectrums multitudinous glow;
And I placed it within the image of this
Which is both isosceles and apparent. I placed
The absurdity of this rhombus upon the page
Of translucent crumbs, placed the spiral onto
The topography of every atom of cyan,
Of fuchsia, of yellow scintillatingly surreal;
Onto the prayers of apathetic inspiration, of
Perpetual hollowness curved into its own
Quantification, into its own enigma resolved.

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

A Prism Drawn
-------------------

A prism drawn in these skies,
Understood, it is only of its clarity.
It solely is its shape
As the droplet of crystal
And shadow always eclipsed.

It solely is an aspect of syzygy,
That which is containing
Only two in alignment:
Itself and its own existence.

It is a prism drawn
Upon paper made transparent
By our inability to show
It has ever been real,
By the colors composed
And virtuous;
Upon paper made torn
By the lines themselves
Intersecting, the lines
Themselves simultaneously
Erased and straight.

oooooooooooooo

And I Loved The Color Yellow
-------------------------------------

I once - - long ago in very distant youth,
Though still remembered in crayon and pastel - -
I found my desires ironic, my contentment
Confused by my very awareness of it.

And I loved the color yellow.

I loved that which I never could love,
And because so, in contrast to
My adulthood, where such contrary lust
Is completely unintentional and despised
By precisely the same soul partaking.
I was enthralled by the beauty in that
Which I found ugly. (Now, it is vice versa.)
I was drawn to this epitome of
My own epitome, to that which
Empathizes with my imperfect purity.
(Now, I fear such ... as well as hope for it.)

And now I love the color fuchsia.

I love this which is expected of me,
This which is not any single tone
Upon the spectrum, this which will
Be and serve as my current nonconformity,
My current oneness with those years
Of my isolated appreciation unappreciated
And my mind’s sight color-blind, those years
Once young.

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

Refracted
-------------

Refracted is the similarity of this essence
Of converging loops both elegant and reassuring.
For into the superficial transparency we gaze
So as to remain elongated and striated as
The light, as the luminescence resounding
Within the darkness, within the circularity
Of shadows and wind. Refracted is the truth,
Is the understanding we imply by our emptiness.
And so too is this rotation bent. So too is the
Lens equal to its certainty. And I resent such
Precognition. But even that is dim; even that is
Tilted and directed into the aesthetic glow above.

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

A Sacrifice Of Rainbows
------------------------------

A sacrifice of rainbows, but
Never divine, never inspiring, are these hues.
She formed herself into her beauty,
Only to shed this light as if again,
As if she was adored.
She spoke in striations fantastic,
In spectra scintillating,
And held her aura within.
Oh, a sacrifice of images projected absurdly
Upon this sky (a shadow),
It is, as we, failing but to be
Exact and precisely perfect
Of its, of any, soul, of mine.


Leroy Quet

Spirals Again Converging

Today's theme: Spirals.
Yes, I already had a post about spirals. But there are so many poems and pictures of mine that use that theme.
See the original spiral post here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/08/blog-post_1465.html


First picture: "Concave Spiral". Second picture: "Solid Space". Middle picture: "Shapelessness Designed". Fourth picture: "The Taste Of Glass". And last picture: "Focus-0".







Upright Was The Spiral
------------------------

Upon the edge of this forgotten circle,
Upon the perimeter of an uncurving whirlpool,
Upright was the spiral, a voiceless loop
Turning into its surrealness obtained. Upright
Was the final convergence; in this we are
Darker than our epitomes. And we sleep
Above the wonder we imply by our dreams.
Yes,
Upright is the magnification of those conjectures,
For, we equate them we extreme intermediacy.
We equate truth with imagination. And we
Evaluate these mangled theorems once again.
We calculate the verticality of such spirals,
Each placed at the circumference of ambivalence,
Each placed within imprecise exactness, within
A paradigm of certainty decidedly confusing.



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

Mangled Apparition Of Righteousness
---------------------------------------

Profoundly the globule suspended above its floor,
Profoundly it is pressed into the clarity within.
Against the coil is formed that exoskeleton, is
Made the shadows glistening, for they are magnificent.

And I tell you of this sphere, because it descends
And replenishes an adjacent spiral. Yes, outward
And inward the spiral diverges. But yet in this glass
Is known the fire, is known the callousness of
Stone and bone and flesh contained but yet drawn,
But yet sketched with a sickening pen. Ah, I,
Perhaps, will transfuse that prism with what
Is saddened by my darkness. Ah, I will perceive
The final helix to be its own occlusion, to
Be its own elongation and enslavement. But
Thus, thus we distract our focus now astray;
Thus we covet such spirals as they diffuse, as
They concur with the grasp curled abruptly
Into our mangled apparition of righteousness.

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

(I might have posted the following poem already.)

Not Yet A Spiral
------------------

In a cobweb levitating within what is beneath
The flattened pinnacle, destiny hung inside its
Spherical rot. And in that globe was drawn
This surface not yet a spiral. But, still, it
Turned, concentrating, converging into a
Hollow center. Although it rose again outward,
And completed itself in such intermediacy.

And between the shell and the cocoon, this coil
Became its transparent colors. Then, in these
Encased aesthetics, that helix flew up,
Flew under the crumpled sky. And it
Rested in the cobweb it will imagine.
And it was moist and worthy of its shape.
It was epitomized by its metaphors. And
Therefore it forgot its space; it foresaw
Its truth. It restrained its containment,
Thirsting for its hunger, for its existence
Coiled beyond all such deja vu.

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

Regarding Spirals
-----------------------

If I had invented spirals, ha,
I would have become the very rotation
Obscured by my circumference,
Would have remained this mandala
Of ellipsoids and imagery, of
The horizon exploding -- transmuting
Into specks, into sparks -- of what
Has grasped at certainty, only to
Ask of subdivided grids the question
Regarding spirals returning to their centers,
To their lines and abstraction
Too perfect to be envisioned.

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

Its Ascension Vaguely Flat
----------------------------

Curled about this globule, a prism, is all that is
Adjoining and complete. Surrounding that spiral
Is a spiral, within is again such a coil of isolation.
Curled, yet vaporous despite its loop, despite its
Mathematics, curled and curved are these whispers,
Are these voices of oblique amazement. Yes,
Curled anew is each assumption of awareness,
Is each atom of cognition made ashen, made
Wet and fluid and viscous; as it too is mud.

..And I wrap the circumference of trapezoids
..Within its epitome redeemed. Ah, it is enclosed,
..Then it surrounds our lemicons, it surrounds
..Every suffix of elongation -- for it is indeed
..Clockwise, is indeed its ascension vaguely flat.

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


Overt Shape
---------------

Curve around the spiral itself curved
Through and surrounding what was once
Its one center remaining absurd yet beautiful
-- Misplaced inspiration, inspiration misplaced --
Diagonal then flat then vertical until
Again the shape becomes overt -- atoms
Of loops withheld, of turpentine and bread
Filtering through our skin so as to return to
Simply tragedy's milk -- Oh, the spirals love
Their pompous light, love their
Silhouetted truncation, have loved their truth
And purpose within us -- curve around
The spiral itself curved -- and then explode
Into lemniscates rotated, forming our horizon,
Forming our mandala just at, obviously, what is
Our grasp's farthest reach.

ooooooooooooooooo


As A Spiral Dreamt
--------------------

Inside these molecules of rotation, I enclose
Myself in what is somewhat the spiral dreamt.
Horizontally, vertically, into the depths of ascension
It curves, remaining not quite flat, but yet
It obtains these rings of distant dimensions.

Inside such convex crescents enumerated surely
Via their radii oblong and considerate, there
I finalize the ultimate vertex oddly sought,
There I fill the coil with its own axis strangely
Diagonal, strangely unimagined. Inside these
Droplets bisected and duplicated, within I return
To the flatness, I retreat to the pinnacle of
This vacuous truth defined as but a definition,
Defined as a spiral dreamt -- but it soon becomes
Its own collapse, becomes its expansion into a
Structure obvious, into a substance profoundly of
Such conclusion.


Leroy

Paper Barely Torn

Today's theme: Paper.

First picture: "Crumpled And Slightly Flat". Second picture: "Meaninglessness Conveyed". Third picture: "Sacraments Of Conjecture". Fourth picture: "Equilateral". Last picture: "Three Sheets Of Paper".






The first poem of this post actually has nothing to do with paper. (Well, actually, ALL poetry has something to do with paper...)
It is a poem I wrote today that would fit in well in the last post about machines. So think of it as a post-script for the last set of poems on this blog.

This Scale Without Equilibrium
--------------------------------
(This Device)
--------------

This device understood its dreams. But yet
It knew not its actual center. Yet it finally did.
Oh, it was calibrated by such forgotten ascension.
And it posed, becoming the barometer of our
Nonconforming convergence, of our bland assumptions.
It became the thermostat under which we
Remained human, over which we concealed our
Emergence. Oh, this device enumerated the
Polygons, counted our bisectors upon the dimensions
Of the space of comprehension. And it measured truth
Via its own lies. Then it compared every dichotomy
With its conjugate. And purity soon
Reawakened to achieve the balance of this
Scale without equilibrium. Thus, the device perceived
All reality through its indicator, through
Our own hallucinations distinctively misaligned.


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

Now, back to paper.

Well, this poem is not that much about paper either. Just a little.

Once And Thereafter Isosceles
------------------------------

Gazing upon the game, I oscillate and
Deny my certainty. For, I am defined via
The page, via the circle and its diameters.
Oh, we draw the straight lines from this
Circumference to itself opposed. And
These intersecting edges may betray destiny,
Might beget the entirety of such precognition.

So, then I scrawl from vertex to vertex,
Epitomizing my vagueness by triumph, by
Interaction. But soon the mesh is complete.
Soon the triangles become my theorems,
Become the truth of finality. And you,
You become my strangeness, and I become yours.
But who is magnificent in their loss?
And who plays the gambit never made,
Transforming the paper into the cobweb, into
Its complexity once and thereafter isosceles?


++++++++++

Concept
----------

If the shadows cast across our world
By those dreams of crumpled paper
And of lines in the sky,
If that darkness contained any meaning,
Any meaning aside from conceit for conception,
Then the patterns drawn on the inside
Of my consciousness, they would have purpose,
Have intrinsic value ultimately and completely.
But, alas, I am far from certain that
Any of the circles and grids and spirals
Have an existence upon the ether,
Upon these mathematical and scientific constants
Which imply the entire whole and all
Of the simplest single points at each vertex
Of an infinite-dimensional cube.

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

The Ink Imagines
-----------------

The ink tingles. And, therefore, it is haphazard.
It is scratched into the canvas of emptiness.
It is drawn as words onto a paper presumed.
And each verb scrawled alternates in its character
From every noun. For the former are straight
And perpendicular. Yet the latter are curved,
Concentric, and dripping. And I intersect
Adjectives with abstraction. But, still, these
Linear phrases entice my convexity. And I
Become swollen, become intricate and simplistic.

For the ink imagines, imagines its constituents
To be of shape and emotion. So, I sip again
The syrup black; then I am distant. Then
I am prolific, am precise; then I am
Demanding of the squiggles inside where I
Have written what I endure, where I have written
Of that ambiguity in which such truth differs.

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

The Pages Of An Undecided Book
---------------------------------

And in that world without beginning, I glance
Upon the immediate images made from the pages
Of an undecided book. Then I understand, I
Am dreaming. And I wonder, are these hallucinations,
These visions, are they implying my own soul? Or are
The tableaux I observe equal only to their plagiarism?
Ah, I quickly shift the page, and then another
Perception is drawn for my imagination's ambiguous edge.
Then I forget the pleasures observed -- the pages never
Become again what they were. Then I tear
The paper callously. But such an infraction
Does not remain, does not matter. Because I only recall
The white of this tome, only recall the
Creases without shape. For I deny that these
Geometries are mine, deny that the dream
Is truly false. So I place the book aside,
Preparing myself to wake, to confront my self-betrayal.

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

That Eternal Cloth
--------------------

The paper, that eternal cloth, it enveloped me; it
Flung into the fold, into the abrupt bend.
Curved and delicate, the lines of such a spiral
Enclosed me and my echoes. And that reverberation
Is gray, as too is the cocoon of pulp. And flat
Is the wad prior to its destruction. Yet it now
Is convex, is now convoluted, is also crumpled
And unsettled in its vertigo, in its tangents all
Rotated and shattered and caustic. Oh, the paper
Tears, but still it is stained by imagination.
Still it creases and crinkles and redeems its blandness.
For I draw upon its beauty the perplexing ambiguity,
Draw upon it the geometry of complicated permutations,
Of complimentary diagonals each surrounding me
Via such a semicircular and thoughtless shroud.

oooooooooooooooo

Unfolded And Torn Is This Paper
---------------------------------

Unfolded and torn is this shell, is this paper
Upon which I once drew such words, words of
Severed strangeness and perception. Displaced, yes,
Is that certain light that has determined its own
Superstitions, that has demanded that the page be
Crushed then burned then made moist but spectacular.
Oh, those shards of shapeless flatness, they are
A hindrance and an irradiant dream. For I unfold
The peel from its enlightenment, unfold the
Reams made into our phonemes wrought and written
Onto the voices themselves, onto forgotten poetry.
And I pronounce these scribbled images sacred.
I pronounce the syllables as if they remain
Within my virtue. Yet I then shatter all the
Perversions of my mind, erasing such sounds from
Paper I again fold and tear, that I again betray,
Never assuming those possibilities could have
Abstained from absence, from ink surely contrived.


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

Amongst The Paper Encased
--------------------------------

The paper upon which is drawn the circle, the square,
Is drawn the ellipsoid shaded by its form (despite
Its topology) -- this page shelters the very image
Which reverberates within it. This imprecise dream
Traces its assumptions above the flatness evolved, above
The scintillating machine we have envisioned.

Abbreviated, certainly, is that random epitomization
Of graphite and ink cursively hewn onto such pulp.
Yet similarity denies the finitude of any spiral,
Of any calculations coarsely flung, then thrown
Among the lines and void of white amber, amongst
The paper encased by sacred insignia, by emptiness
Made into thought made into mathematics made dark
And illegible but smudged, made into these
Obtuse silhouettes of our perception.

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

Of This Such Scratch-Paper
----------------------------------

Divided
Into subdivisions, into
Multiples, again into inconsistent fractions
Again constant (and unequal to any ratio) ...
I approached, as an inexpressible approximation,
My distant madness of such this scratch-paper.

I randomly proposed these imagined scribbles
Onto the pages of my insignificance
(Yet always still my most significant reality)
Onto pages unimpressed
By their once erased vacuousness
(Remaining as it has remained).

We: pronouns resurrected as integers
Inconsistent on these abaci,
In these lines unplotted, unknown,
Forgotten ...
We were nothing but illegible
And symbolic of nothing.
We were but of no expression
Of my distant madness, of this such
Scratch-paper, of
This such scripture
Torn into exclusively edges.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Inevitably Torn
-------------------

Every vision of our empty-sets,
Of the most dimly-lit pages
Onto where not one syllable has
Ever been written, where
Not any pencil nor pen (nor
Hastily scratched image) has finally formed,
Finally been drawn into the creases and rips
Of reality threatened by its truth
Inevitably torn...

But if we collapse our perceptions
Into but that knot of paper,
Of paper itself the poetry
It would have had once printed upon it,
(But alas, such is plain) --
We will never find the purposes quite
Free and once adored. But ultimately,
In some way, we will redeem
The ignorance of our resentment
By the act of an inexplicable humanity,
By the anger which tosses that
Crumpled wad of all we might have found
Into the waste-basket within
Our hubristic selves, into the simplest oblivion,
The oblivion
Of what we might likely achieve ourselves.


Leroy Quet