First picture: "Reality Encompassing A Dream". Second picture: "Truth, Its Own Madness".
Hallucinations Incorrectly Perceived
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The illusion of an illusion is drawn in its flatness
To appear bulbous and convex. But beneath the image
The lucid edges vanish to reappear. Oh, this too
Is deceptive. Neither is the cylinder obscured
Nor is it protruding; for it is falsely shown. Yet
This emptiness is also only imaginary, though we gaze
Onto the dream, the very dream, we are encased by.
We surrender our thoughts to their misinterpretation.
And we conclude that such evidence is the lie. But still
We partake in the fiction. Because we are unseen
By our consideration. We are hidden behind a veil
That somehow is nonexistent. We are hidden again
Behind the paper overlapping. And there we
Pretend that all reality is truthful, pretend that
Our minds are reclaimed by their waking, by
The hallucinations incorrectly perceived, but
Ignored in those visions' ample insignificance.
===============
I might have posted this poem already.
Truthful Simile
-----------------------
A truthful simile is its own unmagnified determination.
Such psychotic breath redeems itself surely.
It surrenders its dimension unto this upward flight.
And then that hidden spite retreats again.
Then it surrounds us with these circles,
With this curled and glutinous twine.
Oh, outwardly the ripples converge,
Forming the ultimate boundary within us.
Inwardly the insignificance mends me,
Rendering this dream as only silt, as
Simply the tainted light of artificiality,
As the spit remade into emptiness profound.
++++++++++++
The Metaphor Of Everything
----------------------------
Reality, all our truth, has been compartmentalized
Into those worlds of finitude and those of
Infinite certainty probably incorrect. And still,
What we believe is further subdivided between
Epiphany and its shadows. So, I ponder the maze,
Ponder the din above me. And I conclude
That such a universe never overcame its own
Creation. Yet, upwards it flew, becoming what
It was, becoming the metaphor of everything.
And we too seemed to be real. We seemed
To be simple and grotesque. But we were trite;
We were insignificant in our hallucinations.
But we were not disturbed by the triumph
Of other existences redeemed. Because we were
Lost in our own torment. So we forgot
That we have been damned, forgot that this
Cosmos where we hurt has resisted us each; because
It will never collapse despite our commands.
.........................
Upon The Edge Of Perilous Truth
----------------------------------
Upon the edge of perilous truth, we defy that
Dream regarding uncertainty. There we demand such
Suffering to be obtained by our soulless selves. And
We then redeem these mental assumptions by absolving
Their darkness of its distant inevitability. Upon
The peel we have shunned, we define that
Excretion via its meaningless diameters. And we
Attempt to explain every question by its answer,
Try to formulate the magnitudes drawn deeply
In among the silent hollowness inside where
We have defied that uncertain dream. For
Waking is transcendence -- the hallucination ceases.
For knowing is purity, is wondrous, despite
Our careless doubt (indecisive in its imposition).
oooooooooooooooooo
Tautology Of Specious Incoherence
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A tautology of specious incoherence -- observed,
Obscene, corroded, convoluted, condemned.
Each absurd but benign pittance entwines us
Within the uncomprehended treason of libido,
Of stale but verbose imposition, of what
Is surely the imbalance of asymmetry, is in
Among our sorrowful debauchery, is inside yet
These transformations of obtuse scintillation.
Equality equaling itself again, it
Screams its tirade of riddles and truth;
It disavows each subdivided trance, each
Substantial trauma of magnificence designed.
***************
Despite Juxtaposed Unambiguity
----------------------------------------
The truth has been hexagonal, as too it has,
As all, also been
An unrigorous symmetry,
An unprovable sphere; as it has been
A forgotten aura encasing my purplish spirit
(Has been a forgotten halo about every interpretation
Of each universe, about the sameness
Perfect and assumed to exist of
Its very consistency) --
This solitary truth again isolated, it
Has resented neither dictionaries obvious
(And fascist and blurry) nor despised
Oxymora (final and not ironic despite
Each line of our imprisoned sight;
Despite juxtaposed unambiguity,
Angled and but concentric and unexpected).
For such self-portraits are yet always,
Are yet abstract, eternal, absurd, and unsigned.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Sweetest And Oddly-Lit Truth
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Wind and twist and loop and intertwine
Within the minds of geniuses made
Into idiots by their own triviality - -
The knots of spectacular imaginings
Without thought or self-conception.
For red and blue and yellow transforming
Into orange, maybe green, all in their
Very own esteem - - they are but equations
And yes/no-realities filling that ocean
Of this entire cosmic rotation, this
Future, past, and what else is imposed upon
Our awareness in oscillation. And what more
Is the substance of these beliefs
Which have shut our glass unto that
Darkest cloud of churning insanity yet
So very lovely in its spirals and
Eddies, in its scent of our memories
Singing of a sweetest and oddly-lit truth?
Leroy Quet
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