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
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