First, an old poem:
A Web Spun By Butterflies
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Why cannot the butterfly
Construct its own web, create
This beautiful prison (an ironic cocoon) which
Embraces each of humanity's souls,
Embraces us among that that is beheld
And referenced as being only love?
Why has this empty containment
Of all matter and energy and
Existence, why has this which is encased inside
What we are aesthetically deriving
(And living upon), why
Has any of its forms been ever capable
Of pretending to be as so magnificent a spider?
For such an entity, although uninspired,
Has already spun
These galaxies and prisms and smoke
From threads still never explained, still
Forgotten, despite
The iridescence of this one, this solitary,
And, as is conclusively implied, this which is (as prior)
A truthfully unseen and unloved butterfly.
Now some pictures:
(Pictures' titles: Butterfly Redeemed, Imprecise Butterfly, As A Butterfly.)
Another poem, a little newer:
Of These Enlightened Wings
-----------------------------
These wings extend beyond their suffocation,
Beyond the shell in which we all are encased.
And in this expanse I am found to be beautiful;
In this blur my ugliness becomes me again.
Oh, within the soul of the amorphous butterfly
Are made such profound fantasies rising
Unto that distance where we transpose our thoughts.
Oh, inside the trajectory of this lepidopteran
Are the atoms of reality's whispers. Inside the song
For which we endure are the molecules of image,
Are the utterances of our flight curving upwards,
Are the asymmetries of these enlightened wings,
Are the patterns of oblivion transformed anew
Into perfection and perception surely actual.
Some more poems:
Poised Upon The Pinnacle
---------------------------
An asymmetric butterfly was poised upon the pinnacle;
It rises up from this curl, it rises to float
In its balance and its incompletion. Oh, underneath
The twine of cosmic distance, this insect is remade.
And in its confusion it too is dim, it too becomes
The silhouette of the eclipse formed by such a sky
In retrograde. Ah, this bug surrenders to the light,
To the voices aglow and fuchsia. And then it
Transcends its stench, transcends its convolutions.
And then it floats above the entirety of all,
Surely to settle onto yet a peculiar point.
Ha, numerous are the arcs, are those crescents spun;
Numerous are the symmetries of ambiguity, of
Impact and isolation, of innocence fluttering but yet
Fulfilled by the conjunctions of our levitation.
Of Butterflies We Detest
-------------------------------
A nonconformist butterfly,
It knew what is its shape
(However clear and glowing).
It knew what is (its) madness --
And so this discernment ever yet
Counted the multiples of 1, of 0,
Of our own selves.
It knew, it flew, it transformed
Despite its cocoon
Into waking, into voices,
Inside itself alone, inside this
Watercolor a solitary knowing,
A knowing of
That which we knew,
Again
Knew of the shapes, of the madness,
Knew of butterflies we detest,...
For they are our aspirations proclaimed.
Of
----
Derived from that
Which was either trivial or wrong
And which was of that which was of
Such derived again of every derivation
Implied by its own subscripts which
Are all themselves
Implied by the definitions defined
In terms of definitions of
Words spoken of mouths
Of virgins quite virtuous and of
Vice so honestly of the inner atoms
Of our souls each
Of a reality remade as its
Own past transforming into
A metamorphosis
Of this unimaginably nimbused
Butterfly always
Aglow and always the very representation
Of the circle of every and all
And infinity and but only one
Dimension not quite understood
Nor uncertain nor
Anything else but again yet
Derived from its own
Originality. (period)
Okay, one more:
Chrysalis
-----------
Awake, my underestimated butterfly,
A winged glowing fuchsia lepidopteran,
A dangerous monster in four dimensions.
Wake into powdered sugar and ash.
Wake, for this dream has already
Gone on too long, gone on eternally.
Break the plaid that encompasses our world,
That ties together this universe.
And fly beyond the singularity
Unto divinity and pleasure.
Wake unto that existence
That we have been woken from.
For our sleep is the Mobius-strip,
An irony defined itself ironically.
Wake, my strange sleeper.
For your dreams are still more weird
Than any possibilities ever conceived,
Conceived among the mannequins and colors,
The colors cast
By the prisms of the mind.
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
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