A Smattering Of Whatever

No pictures today. And the poetry follows no pre-determined theme.

I wrote this just yesterday.

The Martyr
-----------

We are ever sacrificed to our own gods of
Minutia and smoke, are sacrificed by the
Amnestic and foolish priests. Oh, I am beheld
Upon the altar made from travesty and beauty.
And the noose surrounds me, for I am the martyr.
I am shapeless in my implications.
Then I fall; then I suffocate and deny my
Sad insanity. Then I too am as those others,
The children of virtue, of purpose truncated.
I am as a prism encased inside us each. For I
Radiate the subtle ambivalence of my death.
I radiate the images of dawn betrayed by
Sight, vision, and thought. I am but afloat
Above the dreams we divine. Oh, I am always
The martyr, am so until I rot, until the sky
Reoccurs beneath me and my celibacy, until
I laugh, because I am distant, I am redeemed
By such inevitability obtained, despite
My own regret, despite my own endurance.

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

I wrote this about a month ago.


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.

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

A little older still.

Of Fish Necks And Vertices
---------------------------

An under-lapping spiral coils into its cusp, into
Its death contained deeply inside the hollow veil.
And I too rotate, if carelessly, if carefully
Among the thoughts of fish necks and vertices.
I grasp that spiral; for it stings and slices.
For it grasps me in retribution. But it also is
Scalene. It also is congruent to my voices.

An exacting blur then exudes from such a tapestry.
An exhilarating wisp then beholds my levitation.
And I fall, denying the dream of its topology.
I descend softly upon the line, a line bent
Slowly counterclockwise. And again I rotate, but
Yet I am still. Yet I pierce the center of
Those concave spirals, each of which is elegant,
Each of which denounces its introspection,
Denounces that hexagon it has cursively stained.

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

One more poem.

The Bitterness Of Water
--------------------------

Our souls become the bitterness of water. For I
Am repulsed by the taste of that elixir, of
That salve consumed via my thirst. And I knew
Such offense was blasphemy. I knew that the
Virtue of the droplets stung my throat, knew
That the purity of the wetness appeared to
Be vile and unsweet, as if it was a
Despicable poison. Ah, yet I respected this
Moisture as if it equaled sugar, as if it equaled
The cleansing magic I desire. Yet, why, why
Then does the drink appear less than bland? Why
Does the fluid epitomizing me, why does it
Revolt my amusement? For I am a hypocrite denying
The cosmos, denying the air I sip. But still,
Despite my pity and psychosis, I long for such a
Putrid flow, for such water constructing my blood.
I long to be quenched; and, yes, I long somehow to
Inevitably betray my regrettable aversion.

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Update: Well, it looks like the first three poems today mention me falling. So that is almost a theme, if not for the last poem.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet