Vanguard

Back in the day, long long ago, like 5-10 years ago, I was quite the clever writer. (Trust me, I was, at least as compared with what I am today.) Well, I didn't write fiction; but I wrote, as I do now, poetry; and more interestingly, I invented paragraphs upon paragraphs of word-play, wrote of my philosophies on various topics, made up band names and jokes, etc.
I had FUN with language.

But now, now when I actually have a blog, my creative mind is numb.

So sorry, people. But my creative mind is dead. That must be a fact of aging, I guess. Maybe I just need to drink more coffee, I wonder. But, ah, I drink quarts of the black elixir each day already. (However, coffee is my only sin, my only stain...)

Okay, and now a word from our sponsors:

Here is a poem I wrote not too many months ago. It is probably one of the very very few poems I have written that rhyme.
I don't actually like this poem much, except for the last line. That last line sounds really poetic to me.
Here is the poem:

Of Wind And Whispers And Imagined Vanguard
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The clouds are hollow. The lens is rotten.
I stare upon specks of amnesia forgotten.
I have stared upon ruptures of soiled madness.
Thus, in all capacity infused, I certainly had less.
Thus, in this equation of glass, all is presumed.
And randomness' thoughts are poised and attune.
And finite scrawl abandons its syrupy wrath.
Oh, the clouds are hollow in our aftermath.
Oh, before the night chokes death from its lust,
I encroach yet always into such purposeful rust.
I encircle the shapes, and there I cringe.
And still I am stained, and still I singe.
And still the clouds evoke that blasphemous shard
Of wind and whispers and imagined vanguard.

I have got to use the word "vanguard" more in poetry. What a cool word. (Ha!)
As those who are familiar with my infamous poetry know, I like to repeatedly re-use words between poems. I don't re-use the same words much within any particular poem (except words like "the" and "this", which often occur repeatedly). But I will use the same words in many different poems.
This is just my style. It is, however, I admit, an annoying aspect of my style, at least to some.

Okay, one more randomly-picked poem for today -- not a rhymer.

Three-Fourths
---------------

Three-fourths a ring without center, without
Any hole but the single point in amongst me --
I look upon such a torus. And in it is
The arc of triangular cosmos, is the coil
Of concurrent shape. And I cling to this
Dichotomy of unpredictable darkness. For it
Is erect, rising from the tableau. It is
An incomplete, yet beautiful, circle, is but an
Ellipse compressed and punctured. Oh, I am
Obsessed with the images of symmetry and,
Therefore, of asymmetry. I am as opaque as
All reality. And I touch the substance; I am
Touched by these sharp cusps. Ah, I am
Enumerated, as are all perplexing assumptions.
And I formulate my dreams from three-fourths
Of this concentric truth yet specious but
Restlessly sculpted and then, afterwards, conceived.

One last thing before I go: I bet the fact I am submitting my poems to this blog out-of-order might become a problem after I have posted quite a number of poems. For, I might accidently re-post a poem or two. Hopefully, you all will forgive me if I do that.

Leroy Quet