These Vague Dreams

It has indeed been quite a while since I last posted. Since no one reads this blog, then whom am I trying to impress anyway? No one.

Today's theme: Dreams.

Check out my post about truth and reality, here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/10/blog-post.html
(See my related picture, "The Reality Of Dreams", there.)


Pictures: First picture: "Pinnacle Of Dreams". (I might have posted this picture already a while ago.) Second picture: "Subterranean Dream". Third picture: "Transfixed Dreams". And the last picture: "Blunt Dream".





(I wrote this first poem today.)

My Misshapenness Carelessly Overcome
--------------------------------------

These dreams betray me. I am defeated by
The sleep; for, I am meaningless in my superstition.
Oh, my thoughts are absurd, yes.
They are ridiculous and threatening, surely.
But they are voiceless, and so they are denied.
Yet the circumstances of my truthfulness
Falter and imply my abstraction. For, I
Am spinning, am rotated inside my own mind.
I am but the scribbles I have drawn. And
Then my vagueness is rectified; and then my
Strangeness is my salve. Then these dreams
Of coarse perception again are my betrayal,
Are again confused by desperate indecisiveness,
Are never pondered (as is reality). Because
The conjectures of my scrawl are indeed inexact.
They are my misshapenness carelessly overcome.

==========

(This one is only somewhat about dreams. It, however, was inspired by a dream of mine.)

Incorrectly The Spiral
-------------------------

Twice, the vertices are arranged horizontally;
Left and right, they are the spheres without radii.
And from both droplets, the angles radiate outwardly,
Becoming their intersection devoid of cosmic imagination. Twice, directed forth, each line crosses at this
One point, forming such descriptions of definitions
From emergence, from expression. And I wondered
Regarding the loci made of rotation and
Rotation somewhat faster. But I was mistaken
In this question, was curious in this answer. Oh,
I vaguely drew the semicircle, and it was
Incorrectly the spiral. I drew curvature
Without a compass, drew zeniths now obscured,
And therefore indecipherable. Yes, I cast the dream
Into its forgotten iridescence. But I will again
Compute the spiral unintended. I will again
Accomplish the implications of theorems, of
Bending coils stupefyingly hyperbolic.

+++++++++++

Dream Of Agnostic Reality
---------------------------

Strangely, the dream of agnostic reality
Appeared to contort into scrawl, appeared
To meander beneath my forgotten pain.
Oh, deeper than the circles once rectangular,
There we ran and danced and hid. There
We broke the darkness with conjectures.
But we soon slept in that moisture. We
Soon defused such a contraption, yes. And
Then this ascension was re-obtained; For, we
Once could not levitate, but again we shall.
Again we die and drown in these clouds.
Again we discard the annuli, because they
Are wondrous. But I am absurd. Oh,
This dream forsakes its weirdness. But I
Stutter and halt my whispers. But I
Lose the days to the night, to this,
My inward mind, to this, my encapsulation.

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

Imagined And Diagonal
-----------------------------

I forgot to draw diagonal lines,
And intended not to color such
Image nor poetry with screams;
With screams, are these, yet I severe them
Entirely and always and as purely as apathy.
As apathy, I have been surrounded by only
My perfect insignificance;
I have been only alone, been solely
... Absent
From even any of my own self-observing,
From even my resurrection
(An ellipse made from time
...And ambivalence).

...For these dreams
.....Imagined and diagonal
......And never drawn,
........Absent were we,
..........Were we each
............Inside them, neither
.....Enclosing, neither transparent,
.......Nor recalled nor anything but opaque,
.........And therefore understood
......To be deserving of being resented.


ooooooooooooooo

Randomness Of The Glass
------------------------------

The randomness of the glass, it endures its liquid
So as to become both truth and lies, unseen, invisible.
Shattered is that droplet into consciousness, into
Conjecture and riddles, into paradox and imagination.
The randomness of this lens, it refracts thought, it
Transforms each dream into that which is amorphous,
Which is blind purity, transparently invoking an aesthetic
Machine. Stare within the diffusion, within this
Essence of circles, within the color of resonance,
Of the dizziness we excrete. Such is sweet.
The randomness of that pristine geometry -- I see inside
Its emotion; I see its mathematics. I hear, hear
The cacophony of misplaced cognition, of revelation
Soothed and yet flat, yet hallucinated and unexplained.

***************

Distant From These Dreams
----------------------------------

Distant from these dreams, I venture into
The remaining dimness, if just momentarily.
For here the night is barely recalled;
Here the day is slightly impending.
For here the dawn succumbs
To its own succumbing, yes.
For within the dreams only partially shed
I know night will again return
Sooner than this,
This most oblivious of daylight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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.


~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep And Its Dimensions
--------------------------

Strange concealment is woken and made
By sadness' photons and anger's truth. For,
The dream was never depicted in any of
Our parables. Yet it glowed and hung forth
From its laughter, from its stabbing allure.
Oh, in this fluid I too contained
My own levity now shapeless. I tasted
This broth, tasted this perception; and I
Swallowed the septic elixir, swallowed
My sleep and its dimensions. So, I woke
To evoke the spirals of midnight. Yes,
I gasped at such thoughts, and endured
Those vain resolutions. Then I returned
To daylight's moist wonder. For, I am
My breath. I am but a moist and dreadful
Insomniac.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

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.

///////////////////

Underneath The Depths Of My Dreams
-------------------------------------

Thoughts denounced themselves; for each was
Placed inside the sorrowful cocoon, inside the surface
Of concentric scents and tainted truth. I meander
Underneath the depths of my dreams. And I shun
The forgotten expletives, the obscured superlatives.
When I wake I wonder regarding my trajectory.
And still, as ambiguity encases itself, the curiosity
Never is expelled, until I sleep again. Then
I recall my strangeness. And I raise this
Tangled silk to my own levitation. As I stare
Into the transparent void, I find my elixir.
Yes, all questions are answered, if not truthfully.
But yet I long for such amnesia. For it is
My totality, is my realm depicted quite peculiarly,
Is my maniacal whisper depicted as a prayer
Of an atheist, as an obscenity surely mumbled.


()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Of Cursive Dreams
-------------------

There was the dream. It had been a wheel unturning,
Had been a circle implied by its triangular essence.
There was the peculiarity of our spells, was
The mind and its shapelessness, was the glow
Of the numerous excretions of beauty. Ah, there is
The vision hewn from reality's forgetfulness.
There is the schism of evaporation and paste, is
The complex transcendence we have created.
There will be what was, what is -- this maze.
For there had been the confluence of rectified distance,
Had been the hollow mathematics once again sustained,
Had been the similarity of amplitudes and magnitudes each Within us, had still to be the trajectory of assumptions,
Of cursive dreams incalculably meaningless and grim.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Invisible Dreams
------------------------

Invisible dreams utter such strangeness.
They peer into themselves so as to endure
These mouths counting the cogs in the string.
And each hour becomes the spasm, becomes
The inspiring mud we also lick. Each minute
Becomes the puzzlement found to be that
Vibration within the shapeless skin, becomes
The subdivided vision we once devoured.

And invisible are these vast atoms of
Precognition. Invisible are the molecules
Which spill into our prognosticated spirits.
Unseen is the hunger, is the salt, is
The tantrum's hypnotic misery. And
Waking unto this enlightenment, I then
Blur the spectacle of any annihilation;
I blur the dream that is gasping for spit.

############

The Dream Both Real And Finite
-------------------------------------

Despite the palindrome, the dreams still end,
Yet they have prolonged their beginning,
Yet they wait until after such macroscopic minutia
Has been forgotten, has been vanquished from
Our aptitude. Delicate is this night,
Is the woken dryness resolved into
Crude and inanimate hallucinations.
Devoured are the orthogonal circles,
Is the monstrous empathy aghast,
Are the miscellaneous imaginings of asymmetry,
Is the dream both real and finite,
Both equal to zero and yet endured.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Insomnia Leaves
----------------------

Insomnia leaves this night askew, leaves
Daylight to the implosion of our dreams,
To the succubi only seen among
And upon this fragmented carousel, upon
Treasonous radii ascending to flatness.

Ascending, this is an arpeggio inside
An arpeggio itself the essence of essences.
And I concern my sleep with vacuum,
With void and its aspirations to be
An even number still hollow, still
Awake above mistaken beds, above
Vertical circles each impressed
By the very desire to seek its density.

????????????????????

Dreams Of Woken Gazes
------------------------------

Purple I saw in her eyes and hair
And in dreams I had of her previous
To immediately recent dawn.
And then I screamed at her.
She laughed at me.
I screamed at her.
And finally, oh, the quiet din slept.

I arranged anagrams themselves
Into games devoid
Of any other permutation,
Into any tableau of these
Which are dreams,

Which are dreams of woken gazes
Into guilty allure, into
Beauty undeserved and still
Unmoving but transparent.

For, certainly, that which is invisible,
Which is much too abstract
To contemplate,
Is that which is the most beautiful
Of any purple or shape
Sculpted from expectation
(And from sight of her and her longing),
From the self-awareness which remains
As this,
This forgotten consciousness.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Dimly-Lit Nightmare
-------------------------

So, as I only dreamt of being loved,
Dreamt of waking as I again screamed - -
All this entirety was frightened, was just
A dimly-lit nightmare, a prison
Hidden within an invisible and
Unimaginable ugliness ... already (always)
What has been a sky
Of chaos and disorder rhyming
Recursively in its self-awareness of its,
Of each reality’s, most inarticulate
Definitions.

So, as I only dreamt
Of solace and symmetry,
I could wonder, could have wondered,
If what I forgot that I had forgotten
Was but a nightmare intensely and
Colorfully glowing, but uncertainly
(But inaccurately) just its simplicity, simply
My disturbed existence surreal ...
And descending.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Dreams Of Shadows Smudged
------------------------------------

I wish to keep this fantasy hidden
From all those who dream, but obvious
To all those who sleep.

This shadow is
Absorbed beyond itself, is afloat
Under its rotting ground,
Below its emptiness epitomized.
And I stood upon stale worlds;
I grasped at stagnant space-time
And its inevitability. I slew
The invisible illusions as before,
As I had done also in darker nights,
Waking to write such images into
The pages torn and flat, into
The dreams of shadows smudged yet tempting.

-------

There are many more, but I will have to abstain from posting them.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

We Are Stained

Today's theme: Stains.

First picture: "Sanctum Stained". Second picture: "Stains". Third picture: "A Stain Of Our Triteness". Last picture: "Stains Construed".





I have written many poems involving stains. Here is just a small sampling.

---

(I wrote this one just today.)

This Stained Silhouette
-------------------------

Within the edge of light's spherical utterances,
One turbulent silhouette is encompassed by its own
Tangential curl. For, such seems to be a disk.
But, truthfully, it is but an allegory of
Plagiarized spirals. And upon that glowing edge,
It glistens and sleeps. But suddenly it will
Float in its angles not obvious or known.

For, I could not construe its constituents,
Whether they were of acid or of glass or of clouds. I
Could only determine my own vision's grasp.
My thoughts, however, were unknown, were vanishing.

Oh, this ellipsoid of antecedent and breath,
It rotated into its innards. But in the
Blasphemy of peculiarity, there I was invoked.
There upon the wheel, all assumptions were
Forgotten. There, light spoke. And this stained
Silhouette degenerated; then it was subdued by
Its cosmic metaphors, by its transformation
Into cobweb and nautilus, by its frustration
Instinctive resented, insufficiently resonant.

=======

(Did I post this one already?)

Upon Stained Air
------------------

Of yellow and amber, a billowing dichotomy
Is raised in this smoke. And from the fire
Was begotten those thirsty wings of an
Introspective butterfly. Ah, upon stained air
Eddies formed the eyes of this insect's flight.
And as all glistened, I saw in the swirls and
Lemniscates the essence of delicate truth. I saw
These parables of profanity made sweet. I observed
The breath of my choking blood. But yet the wind
Comes and dissipates this enlightenment. Then
Those wings fly into their counterintuitive
Meaninglessness. Then I gasp at such wizardry
Devoid of magic. For, the colors and thoughts
Once triumphant, they pass into their shattering.
They pass into a wondrous breeze
Of memory surely severed.

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

An Ominous Rot
----------------

An ominous rot has become my naive gluttony, has
Been made into my convulsing dreams. And this stain
Of damp dissonance, it too shudders and flings its pity
Onto this prison in which I am engulfed. Salvation
Flutters and stagnates so as to refuse my hunger for it.
Therefore, I am savage.
Ah, the ominous rot has become us each, has transformed
Our existences into oscillation and foam. But yet, yet this
Treasonous purity within me succumbs to the mold, to
The flesh of amoebas and their castration. But yet again,
I dissolve into crumpled crumbs, into entropy
Failing to remain equal to its balance. And I then
Sicken, for this euphoria has contaminated my mind; for
This rot remains my grotesque and stale absurdity; for it
Creates the stench from my repulsive cadaver unexplained.

oooooooooooo

(I may have already posted this old poem.)

Excruciatingly Rotten
--------------------------

For the strawberries are excruciatingly rotten,
Bleeding their smelly pus onto the
Already soiled lace which drapes
Our lives, shrouds my dying soul.

And upon the floor rested the carcass
Of such a beautiful bird, now dissolving
Into a feast for maggots and poetry inspired.

Upon that floor rested my soul draped
In white and stained with the blood of disgust.
And I might be resurrected if I attempt to be.
But perhaps I just will spoil in my anguish,
Begin to fester out of the neglect
I still choke on. And I have become sick.

I have become so very sick indeed. Yes,
I have been poisoned with such sweet
And beautiful, yet malicious, strawberries.

***********

A Cosmos Stained
-----------------------

Ha, we are within electric cobwebs, within
Light spun from its own colors, spun
From a haphazard glow inflamed, from
Saturn's crumbs remaining stagnant,
Becoming transitional, yet to be
Inevitable.
Purified was this mass of emptiness;
And severed too it was from imagination
Confounded, confused by its simple
Yet maddening gaze -- such is a cosmos stained
By this, its tilted and erased
Cacophony, by its truthful sweat
Inside which we are all entombed.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Each Wisp Of Imprecise Solitude Decaying
-------------------------------------------

These meek spheres of uncertain mist overlap
That which is balanced upon such an elongated
Fulcrum. Dripping upon their still silhouettes, the
Curves coinciding all fold then coil, becoming
That moisture engaged in rupture, in transcendence.
Oh, these meek globules of vapor and simplicity,
They recede into millimeters and arc-seconds, retreat
Into the proper water of imagined stains.
And I grasp the foam; I rub the absurdity.
For I taste the window yet immense. I
Taste those miniscule bubbles of air and distance.
I touch again my finitude now blurry, touch
Again the savagery encompassed by perfection,
Encompassed by haphazard beauty and by
Each wisp of imprecise solitude decaying.

////////////////

Liquid Itself Dissolved
----------------------------

Liquid itself dissolved... Complete, lustful, enduring:
For it is soaked thoroughly from within,
Becoming the salt that tastes of its dire dehydration.
This water of oblique character
Sleeps, swallows, screams, suffocates yet.
It feasts on hungry stillness. Then it
Transposes so as to clarify its odor, so as
To retain its invisibility. And surely the stains
Of such imagination will flutter, will
Stagnate and regenerate, will contain
The edgelessness, the endlessness, which is its beauty,
Which was that concentric liquid
Once poisonous, once magnificent, once
Angered by its own introspective inebriation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wither Yet
-----------

Exhausted and convex is every dream of
Analogous vastness defiling its depth. I knew
Such exotic spinning to be these hallucinations,
To be the utter continuum of absent sophistry,
To be the exhausted and convex shards
Which enlighten us, which are the grizzly spell within.

Perfected and composed is each breath of
Anagrams wasted despite their rot. I saw
Such extreme rotation to be this death,
To be the hungry constancy of absurd stillness,
To be the perfected and composed stains
That electrify us, that are the dimmest specks which
Wither yet.

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

Such Staccato Stains
---------------------------

Created is the careless droning -- for it
Soothes this typographical jaggedness.
For it justifies its amplitudes, then defiles
The niches within us. For it misplaces
The grid onto that stuttering curvature.
Yet these glistening shivers entrust us to be
The slurred blurs of esoteric constipation.
They truncate such staccato stains so as
To bleed upon the carcass, so as to
Shine throughout the rust of astrophysics.
Created
Is the carnivorous breath. And reassured
Are the splendid voids embalmed, are each
Distinctive and stale horizon, are the
Cautious winds for which we must deny
Any hollowness blended with its sour contrast.

#############

The Taste Of Conclusive Saliva
--------------------------------------

Huddled and hurdled within my assumptions;
This is what has retraced its incantations,
This is that which is poignant elimination
Of such directionlessness, of death's semblance
And beauty's concern. This is a stain
Remaining until we return from our images;
This is the taste of conclusive saliva, is
The mismatched condemnation inert and utterly
Spiteful, utterly sanctified and still justified
By the thoughtless shards, by the
Stabbing numbers once defiant, once
The itch we equate to, that we seek,
If only to then circumvent the logic of this,
Of disaster and celibacy regressing.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Circles Stained
--------------------


Aground, this dream has been flung
Onto earthen realities each within
The very radius of finitude. For here
We seek our static so as to create it.
Here we sleep before waking, wake
Before sleeping beneath what is below us,
Beneath such an embellishment imposed.
Here we grasp the exacting chords,
Then paste the crumbs upon them,
Then long for depth among this enumeration,
Among 12 subdivided concoctions
Made from circles stained by their resonance.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

This Surface Of Earthen Stain
------------------------------------

Made from only situation, the tapestry is
What forms each curvature, what forms
And believes this surface of earthen stain
To be a sore both divine and rough.

Made from only lust and its hollowness,
The depths of rock etched roundly
Rise to the edge of clouds alone,
Rise into seeming insignificance,
Rise into walls of presence and emptiness,
Into sharp arrays of either
Time and/or
Compassion absurd but yet intersected.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

This The Stains
--------------------

But un-wondered has yet this been:
Why have we not recalled nor known
The exact arrangements of this which is,
Which is (and are) these stains?

But accused was I of such
An inhuman goal,
Of this impotence ignoring its very seclusion,
Erasing its very humanity, for it
(Humanity) is much too assuming, humanity
(It) is too much only hallucinated,
And is itself a vision made from and
Remade into its own deception, into
A belief, into the betrayal, into an absence
Of any meaningful queries
As to why have not we foreseen
(Nor imagined)
These the EXACT arrangements
Of this which is, these cobwebs,
These firmaments, these
Shards of disproven structure,
These our own souls, ourselves, these
Which are (and this which is) the stains.

:::::::::::::::::::

Unlit And Imprecise Stain
---------------------------------

But only an unlit and imprecise stain
Held within time and orientation quite bigoted,
It was, it was beauty. It was unobservable
By any other, unless not I. Certainly,
If known by my certainty, then perhaps I might have
Forgiven the evils of hypocrisy, of
Desire and villainy and hideous conjoining.

But I now, I now resent my inability to discover
The very words I would have finally expressed,
But only as unlit and imprecise stains
(Stains representing every psychosis)
That, unexpectedly, we are still unmotivated
To express, express as only a single wordless phrase.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Spilled
---------

Spilled were the atoms of order-inverted,
Were the once-worshiped visions arising
From composition and stains quite
Bloody and corporal, although divine
And abstract. Yet
I again relapse as to be nothing more
Than an ink-blot indefinable, to nothing else
Than such a self-portrait invisible
To even my own mortal spirit.

For
I am only miscalculated by this
Which is the insanity of conformists,
Which are these atoms of order-inverted,
Of purity contaminated, of
Justice so vilely hypocritical. I am
Simply an amorphous circle,
A spill of an angry liquidity
Onto the pages of holy-books
Sacred, now destroyed, now soiled
And unreadable, but, as always,
Still never coherent despite their rambling.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Only A Stain, Only A Smudge
-------------------------------------

The smudge so noxious
Spread irregularly, and entwined
With every mistake and entropic
Design -- which I have but always spewed
From my spirit itself paranoid
And foul.

Oh, very true were the impossible (and
Irregular) revelations, were these hieroglyphs,
Not one expressible symmetrically,
Not any existent within the text
Of my once-bizarre hallucination.

No, very incorrectly has this ink-blot
(this calculation)
Been interpreted, this paradox
Been ignored. So very inaccurately
Has every universe been enumerated.

But yet I remain
Only a stain, only a smudge,
Lacking dimension or topology,
Lacking any emotion to be
Appreciated by the whole
Or its apathetic mathematics
Somehow (unjustly) intriguing.

[][][][]][][][][][[][]

As A Stain
-------------

I arbitrarily define all of reality
As a stain.
And as I stare, it slowly becomes awake, it
Is seen to transform into something larger,
Something more actual. It is known
To radiate color, glow yellow, glow red, white
And brown, to reinterpret that color as simply
One single calculation.

And we have loved it, worshipped it,
Longed to become it, to lust after it.
We have drawn it unremarkably in spite of
Its invisibility. We have
Inspired its savage and sadistic growth
Until it has soiled the sacred texts
With its greasy substance - - and so
We now might look through those texts
Unto what lies beyond; for the paper
Which represents enlightenment has
All been rendered serendipitously transparent.

()()())()()))()()())()()()

(This last poem isn't beautiful or poetic. But it is surely fitting for this topic.)

The Sidewalk Stain
-----------------------

That vile unidentifiable stain on the sidewalk,
Is it vomit? Is it diarrhea?
Is it the result of a biological terrorist attack?
Maybe a dead animal once rested there,
All squished and oozing blood.
Or maybe it is not blood of an animal,
But of a person, shot in a mugging.
Maybe it is urine or sperm
Or tuberculosis-infected saliva.
Or maybe someone just spilled a soft drink
From a good-old-American fast-food joint.
Now, THAT would be REALLY frightening!

---

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Iridescence

Today's topic: Iridescence.

Also, see my earlier blog post about light and color (at this link):
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/10/blog-post_27.html


First picture: "Iridescent Nothingness". Second picture: "A Glow Circumvented". (A Glow Circumvented was also posted in the blog-post about light and color (which I link to above), as you may recall.)



(I may have already posted some of these.)


Shimmer
--------

Profoundly she writes cursively upon topaz,
Upon scribbles themselves gleaming, themselves
Scrawled over dim shadows made of stars,
Made of crystalline clouds reverberating.
Oh, she tasted such liquid, and thus it was ice.
And her words transcended sitars and labyrinths.
They trisected dimensions without volume into
The colors of those spheres. Ah, in this glass
I spoke to her, and she was symmetrical.
For, she mentioned these droplets, yes.
But they were only ghosts; they were
Only wondrous, as were uncertainty's prisms.
She whispered to me her kiss. Yet I dreamt
Of her lies. I dreamed of her prayers, of
Those proclamations of cursive hexagons, each
Described subtly, iridescently, and verbatim.

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

Within Iridescent Stone
-------------------------

Within the hand is the flower; within
The flower is the pod; within the pod
There are the seeds; within the seed is
Each abstract color once yellow, now
Purple, now painful and confined. Yes,
Within me is the hole; within that there is
The vague truth; within the truth is
The subtext of oblivious geometry, surely.
And within these shapes and prisms and light
Is your voice; and within such wonder
Are the dreams, are the words mentioned
And imagistic. Deep within iridescent stone,
There the sphere is its own epitome as
But a rectangle. There within this flame
Is only magic's metaphors, is only
Empty infinitesimals betrayed but beheld but
Tempered by the ambiguities of everything
And all's superficial constituents.

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

Rays Of Vision
----------------

This light, these photons, the rays of vision, oh,
Iridescent are the sine-waves compounded and opposed
And added and summed to become all exactness
Multiplied by truth and its variations. Red to
Yellow to green to cyan to blue to magenta --
We diffuse and refract such color again.
And all equals its magnification, equals its
Contraction once focused by a strange lens dreaming.
For, we invert the image, and yet
It is sustained. We convert particles to
Fluctuations. But these oscillations reverberate
And then ascend in quite a blurry arpeggio.
Oh, this light, it is negated and amplified,
It is nullified and duplicated. But somehow
We see only one spark of perpendicularity.
Somehow, this radiation is our hallucination.
Or it may be conjectured, may be absolute
And therefore clangorous in its coherent rigor.


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


Seen
-----

The cusp, the swirl, the loop,
The lemniscates, they are drawn by such light.
Within space and air, there the oval curl
Implies the darkness beyond it. Oh, seen
Are the specks between image and glare.
Seen are my blurry thoughts, each devoid
Of embodiment. Yes, seen is truth through
A window of wonder and metaphor. Oh,
I gaze onto the tangle, onto this
Moist suffering and its beauty. And
I see both our temptations and our hate.
I see circles and ellipses glowing, becoming
Their color and their fuchsia. I see
My obscured blindness surely astigmatic,
Surely iridescent but yet repetitive,
But yet grasped by the photons' edgelessness,
But yet grasped by these cosmic silhouettes of
Inwardness and intermediacy otherwise obvious.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Of A Spiral Somehow Concave
-------------------------------

The shape of a concave spiral; the spiral, the shape,
Obscures the quasi-sphere in which it is profound.
In its alliteration, it is drawn beneath the vertex.
In its scrawl, it is depicted via its intermediacy.
And yet it appears to be of glass. But it is
Transparent? Is it obvious in its ambiguity?
Yes, it is but a scribble re-represented. And
So, it attempts to rest upon such stone.
And in its fluid diffusion, it becomes this
Shape of a spiral somehow concave. In its
Concoction it is but a constituent of all.
And it denies it is iridescent. But, surely,
It has despised its own ascension. For,
It falls into the cement below it; and in
Its shattering it is stable; in its perception it
Is remembered; in its discovery it is composed
Of multiplicity carelessly elaborate.

ooooooooooooooooo

(The following poem was one of the first I posted on this blog. But I repost it because it is on-topic.)

Iridescent Mauve
------------------

Benign is the grandiosity of this iridescent mauve. Such
Imagination expressed distracts our lines from the concave,
From all that pretends to be convex. Such lucid diameters
Repeat then coagulate -- because none are perpendicular.
Such erosion converges so as to eradicate this dream
Inside where I am invisible yet afloat. Therefore,
Benign is the gradual overwhelming of our salvation.
For in the causality of the metronome I am sipped,
I am shown to be distant and unseen. I am obvious
In my contagion, yes. Because benign is the sugar
That spills from my flask. For it descends
Into my final waking; it ascends unto my indecision,
Unto the scarlet of our blind prism, of our
Perplexing emptiness counted and then discarded
From intersections superimposed but epitomized surely.

*************************

Some Kind Of Perfection
-------------------------------

Each color, every point along the real-line,
Is somehow purple, unless it is isolated
And alone; then it is glowing in its
Own vision. But, unfortunately, not
One single hue, discovers itself in
Some kind of perfection,
Discovers itself resolved to
Its very purity. No, all frequencies
Of photons inspired, they completely
Find themselves to be violet. No,
They find themselves to be blue-green,
And still uncertain of their orangeness
Becoming yellow. For all sight
Washes away with the clear water
Poured over this canvas. All design,
All curves, imagine themselves made
Straight and unbroken. So I attempt
To distinguish the unresolvable, the
Unsolvable puzzle. For I am human.
But still I am strangely iridescent,
Strangely invisible.

////////////////////

Elements
-----------

The photon recited that aria
Of iridescence, that aura derived
From the fires of heaven, the
Emotion felt only in a sleep
Obscured by the water drowning,
By the air breathing, by
The earth encased within its
Soul now flat ... once again.

The prism which was light itself,
That vision gazing back upon
The hallucinator, it was in pasts
Long before our minds became
Real and imagined, it was every and
All elements; it was all; and
It was, and has been consistently,
The very emptiness containing its
Substance, containing its virtue,
Containing all awareness (of self,
Of selflessness) of everything, of
Every atom becoming as grand
As the entire universe created.

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Glass Once Perceived

Today's topic: Glass.

First picture: "Glass Tori". Second picture: "Neon Black". Third picture: "Oblique Transcendence". Fourth picture: "Horrid And Beautiful". Last picture: "Apparently Of Glass".







Broken Glass
--------------

Shattered scribbles extend forth into such
Liquid, into such seeping, into this sleeping
Now waking, now tangled and presumed.
Oh, those shards are scrawled; for, they hang
And dangle from the ground. And never are
The shadows opaque. Never were the scribbles
Drawn by circumstance or contamination. Never
Were the prisms and prongs implied -- but, yes,
They imploded. Yes, these synonyms of dichotomy
Remade their sharpness into ugly riddles. But
A single truth of pacified glass, it was
Broken, and so it was killed. From death to
Transparent light, the atrocities of my dreams
Refracted then vanished. For, such curvature,
Such turmoil, it is rectangular and tapered.
And we do not observe that awkwardness,
Because it is our own sight smashed by
Its confinement, by its cognition
Once equal to its profanity.

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

That Glass Of Trisection
--------------------------

Trisected glass --
Introspective is my wandering, is my darkness.
For, I observe the distance in my dreams. Yet
I cannot consummate with those thoughts; they
Are abrupt and vague. But are these prayers
Preconceived? Are those songs derived again
From such scribbles? Oh, she held within her
That glass of trisection. I tasted her sweat,
A sour alcohol of diffusion and improbability.
Then she drew upon me a grand tapestry. I ran
So as to be righteous; but I had proclaimed
Only that I would suffer. Then she shattered
The shards into their dust. I was misshapen.
I was contaminated by my sad pangs. And she,
She left to sing of certainty. Oh, ultimately,
I knew I was to sip the crumbs, was to again
Drink the sleep resented but somehow surely
Triumphant, bland, and esoterically stained.

++++++++

Hidden Behind The Window
-------------------------

Tangential to our equilibrium within the sphere,
The inspiration of numbers protruded into a point.
Outwardly, the silhouettes provoked our air.
And in the glass confined we became
The rectangles and the smoke. Inside
The eclipse of transparent virtue, there we
Became certain of such atrocities formed
From this smooth stone. Oh, tangential
To our insufficient dreams, we again woke
To dream again. Among this distance
We stared from the middle of the opaqueness,
Stared forward through the clarity we imagine.
Yes, tangential to our oscillation is
Our rippled perception. And we hide ourselves
Behind this window, hide ourselves where we will
Abruptly circumvent our tangents of distraction.

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

Inside These Hallucinations Of Glass
--------------------------------------

Inside these hallucinations of glass, inside
The hollow spheres, I see ambiguous truth. There
I see un-manifested dichotomy and eviscerated
Insight. Inside the thoughts of color, I observe
Transparent exaggeration and opaque redemption.
Within the coil itself within this subset of all,
I find solitude's extroversion, find the spectacle
Of asymmetry, find those metaphors of emptiness,
Find the gasping glow emitted from that filament.
And I am aware of my sight. I am gazing
Through this delicate bubble unto the geometry
Beyond. Oh, in such reality I find the tangle
To be encased. But yet I cannot touch
Those strings; for I am meaningless;
I am as but an ellipse misinterpreted, am as but
My own perception looking further than
Every speck of darkness obscured, conjured,
And contained.

**********************

Inside The Rainbow's Glass
-----------------------------

Inside the rainbow's glass, inside this arc, inside
The vague parabola -- Those droplets of our whispers,
They are inside us surely; they are beheld
By truth's apparitions, are again betrayed by
Truth's expletives, are beautiful in their submission to
My unexplained blood. Inside the fumes of such
Spectacular and glistening anger is, is my own sight
Of sterile inflection. Inside the world without
Cusps, without maxima or minima is the curvature
Of dreams once amorphous. Inside us each is this,
Is thus the thought of crystalline sewage, is
The thought of madness truncated by reality, of
Mandalas severed from their linearity by the bending of
Both refraction and oscillation made anew into these
Unexpressed geometries I have conclusively divulged.

oooooooooooooooo

Differing Is The Glow
------------------------

Differing is the glow, is the transparence among us.
From distinct to clangorous are these shouts, are
The topologies of conjectures and proof, are yet
The curves of the strange labyrinths above our humanity.
Floating upward is this transitional glass, is this
Atom made into a molecule made into a thought
Of metamorphosis. Rising unto our descending sight
Is that clockwork of crystalline epiphany, is
That condensation of spirals into prisms, is such
A metaphorical hallucination made radial and
Vertical, made inert despite its hollowness.
Differing is the glow, is the introspective speck
Of contagious nonconformity. Differing is this
Madness that reiterates its opaque essence, that
Reiterates its distance disconnected abruptly from
Dangled completion, abruptly from
Damnation's surreal and counterintuitive spires.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Randomness Of The Glass
------------------------------

The randomness of the glass, it endures its liquid
So as to become both truth and lies, unseen, invisible.
Shattered is that droplet into consciousness, into
Conjecture and riddles, into paradox and imagination.
The randomness of this lens, it refracts thought, it
Transforms each dream into that which is amorphous,
Which is blind purity, transparently invoking an aesthetic
Machine. Stare within the diffusion, within this
Essence of circles, within the color of resonance,
Of the dizziness we excrete. Such is sweet.
The randomness of that pristine geometry -- I see inside
Its emotion; I see its mathematics. I hear, hear
The cacophony of misplaced cognition, of revelation
Soothed and yet flat, yet hallucinated and unexplained.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Within My Refracted Introspection
--------------------------------------

I coarsely strayed within my refracted introspection.
Truth creates itself from its own soul, yes.
And seen beyond each mind is the simplest thought,
Is absence and trapezoids enveloped by this
Tainted celibacy, by the amber disk we have
Evolved to ignore. Thus, the plural skies
Darken then implode, then distract me from
These drowning dreams of caustic beauty made.

Within my refracted introspection I saw the tinge
Of sacred concavity, saw the circumferences of
Squares, saw the division of circles beheld --
Beheld is the rotation stranger than its own angles,
Than the spirit of awareness I have scrawled
Upon glass and crystal, upon such reverberation,
Upon such rambling, oh, that we will soon comprehend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Atoms Of This Elemental Glass
------------------------------------

Dim contours drawn onto beauty's spirals,
These too are the curves of luscious magenta,
Are too the desperation and succulence
Of love's injustice, of flowers amber
Yet astigmatic yet pronounced via
Unnerving mathematics.

For such are but atoms of this elemental glass.

And we knew how to place the poetry
Onto such light, onto such artificial glitter
Above where skies seclude themselves
So as to always hide, so as to place
The poetry within us, within
What has been but every seeming atom.

////////////////////

Sands Already Equal To Glass
--------------------------------------

Oblivion's hourglass reveals its truncated
And hollow essence itself falling
Through the throat of every dream,
Through the center of every oneness.
It, as we, is waking if to promote truth,
To become obvious to its hungry stirring,
To its sleep held and spilled onto
Random voices arising inside
These sands already equal to glass.
For this goddess of a trillion photons,
Of temptation and halos swallowed
Then formed into ground, she
Utters the time rendered and divined
From space, from transparent dawn
Onto which
Such shadows of dichotomy fall.

##############

Such Glass From Which Sand Is Spun
----------------------------------------------

(Accusatory is the cobweb),
Is the glass from which sand is spun,
Is every cloud's night, is a shore
Among arid seas, among corrosion
Implied by what is determined,
Determined to remain aghast
And resentful.

And this faint crystal tells of truth,
Tells of uncertainty regarding uncertainty,
Tells of silhouettes and elevators
Arriving at these dawns, if only
To utter the final verse.

Oh, such glass from which sand is spun,
Of purpose's corpse sorrowful and undone,
Such pain alludes us so until
This voice tastes the rotting kill.

(((((((((((())))))))))))

The Glass Observed
-------------------------

The glass observed itself,
From spiral to pane to prism again,
From the calm of this sleep,
Until the world fell within its rotation,
Within its clarity shattering.
And the glass observed each self,
Saw through its pupil, its iris,
Through its cornea misplaced,
Until the world rose and retreated,
Until the photons had meant nothing else.

---

Leroy Quet

Thorns And Prickles

Today's theme: Thorns.
(I don't have many poems or pictures involving thorns, so this will be a relatively short blog-post.)

First picture: (simply) "Thorn". Second Picture: "Thorns Themselves Tearing".




(The following poem could have been included in my blog-post about butterflies as well, except that I wrote it right after I last posted about butterflies.)

Upon The Dismal Thorn
------------------------

Upon the dismal thorn, an oblivious butterfly
Is poised; it rests on its linearity aligned
But always misshapen. It is never stung
By the crude sharpness beneath such silk.
And still, this bug is held and exact
In its whispered belief. And I gaze onto
The subtle wings; for, they stammer, yes,
But are tilted only in their certainty. Ah,
Upon the dismal thorn, this lepidopteran
Does not release itself from its pangs. Oh,
I find myself aware of my disdain for
That stubbornness. But yet, yet I too am
Perched within the cusp. I too refute
My flight upwards. For, I dare only
To flutter atop this distant ground. I dare
Only to fly to fetch my hunger, only to
Imprison myself inside my agnosticism
Regarding the world above my madness, above
That magnificent but decisive ceiling.

++++++++++


(This poem I just wrote yesterday. It alludes to the poem above.)

Thorn Of Glass
---------------

Severed by this thorn of glass, my soul wails;
Yet it is finally soothed by its triumphant sickness.
And, certainly, the transparent salt within me,
It oozes and whispers and is finally obtained.

Severed by the spike, a shard, a speck of image;
My gut resumes its hallucinations. And then
The anger relinquishes its stains. Then the thorn
Transposes its triangular implications upon
My death, upon my magnificence conceived.

Oh, severed by this smooth knife, I protrude
From my evisceration. And then the blade
Ascends, and I depart, and I become opaque;
I become but the flower, become but the butterfly
Perched against such stabbing, perched anew
Amongst those forgotten poems, amongst
Those infinite thorns, all abrasive but somehow
Each distant from my flesh blandly grieving.

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

This Cloud Of The Thorn
--------------------------

Coinciding with this cloud of the thorn, withered
Is such rain, is such beauty in which I succumb.
Withered are those naive thoughts of rancid sky.
And I relinquish my fist; and it erases the air;
It captures the single droplet. For where has this
Transparent speck become itself? Where, this water
Of potential grandiosity? Yet it fails. It fails
To wash into our dreams, into misshapen rivers soiled
And jagged. Oh, circumstances remain, then coincide,
Coincide with rain, with flesh, with stabbing shards.
For we too fall. We too are made from blood.
We too are but mist ascending, then descending,
Then arriving at our own curiosity, asking, surely,
Have we finally rested upon our desires, only to darken
Or be forgotten? Ah, and then we recall, however,
We are never to love, are never to evoke
Any such clouds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(I think I posted this poem already. Maybe.)

Shimmering Thorns
(The Botany Lesson)
---------------------

The stem protrudes upwards and away
From its own flower beneath us, rising to
The diagonal sky. The leaves correlate
With their tapered parallelism, becoming
But petals of mismatched transparency.
The fruit implodes into its invisibility,
Into its threefold concentricity, rendering
Such seeds to be both sweet and elliptical.
The glow of this specimen denies its edge,
Accumulating within the spiral of such
A soul. And the earth under which
All seen is below, there it grows filthy
And wet and beautiful -- there it begins
To sprout then die then recreate anew
This perfume, recreate this distance spun
As if any profanity would define that flora
Of our conclusion, of our shimmering thorns.

*******************

(The last two poems mention thorns, but each is more about other things.)

Phases Of Each Imbecile's Concentric Light
--------------------------------------------------

The phases of each imbecile's concentric light
Reveal the inflection to be within a dream
Of shattered thorns themselves aglow,
Themselves glazed with such scribbles seen.
Distasteful imagination flattens before
Becoming trite then severed and aghast.
So I refute the prisms' pangs, refuse
To scream of any excreted plight,
Of any praise endured, of any rain
Made arid and torn; refuse to remain
Underneath the ceiling of blasphemy,
Underneath the convex shroud of beauty's cataclysm.

oooooooooooooo

Sideways Is
-------------

Strange and vague is the blacklight cosmos.
I gaze into its shadow, into its perfect water.
And I am cleansed, I am enraged by obviousness.
Oh, drawn as glass is this eclipse evoked;
Drawn as all purpose is our beauty endured,
Is our spectacular curvature utterly avant-garde.

Oh, sideways is the maze surrounding the blandness.
Sideways is the cylinder of cubes, is the cardioid
Rounder yet than any trapezoid. Sideways is
The thorn above our cursed sky, is the
Fragmentation of peculiarity into absolution
And obscure enlightenment whispered. Oh,
Strange and vague is the amorphous rainbow;
For it is unusual but apparent. And I know
I will never entwine within such a firmament,
Because it pretends to be too elongated for any
Of our misunderstandings to inevitably superimpose
Upon awareness, upon those dreams of speckled epitome.

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

Leroy Quet

That Which Entwines

Today's theme: Strings, threads, wires.

First picture: "Our Crudeness Entwined". Second picture: "Threads Ripped Sideways". Third picture: "Wire Stirred". Fourth picture: "Misshapen Agnosticism". Fifth picture: "Abrupt Strings Foreseen". (I just created this last picture today.)






(I wrote this first poem today.)

Almost The Loop Resolved
---------------------------

Almost a lemniscates, almost the loop resolved --
The sphere obscures this concealment beyond it.
And all is entwined by such curvature afloat.
All is balanced by purity and its antipode.
Oh, upon the coil, the slender string becomes
Both air and bizarre spite. Before my
Exaggerated gaze, I stare at this hallucination.
And it was salt; it was ice; it was sand.

Ah, among the simple glow, light became itself
Within such cloth. And the shadow conceived, it
Is made wrinkled by its flatness. Yes, I foresaw
That abrupt discontinuation. For, this
Wire hid behind its existence -- and so it
Swerved and swept forth between me
And my dreams. It contracted its expansion,
Yet returned to its center now external.

=========

The Knot Remains
------------------

I tie the string to string in such tangential knots.
I possess the twists of red, blue, yellow, and consequence.
I taste the magic preconceived; for, it is salty.
And I become entangled in this scribble; I become
But iridescent in my magnification. Oh, trite is
The thread that engulfs me. But I untie these theorems
That each compose the soul. And the knots transform
Into truth bound within atoms of counter-intuition.

Thus, I calculate the conjectures via their stains.
Therefore, I am but entwined between the loops,
Between the sarcastic string and its obviousness.
Ah, I attempt to reiterate this puzzle of lines.
Yet I cannot but pick at the mess. For,
The knot remains, despite us. It still
Remains begotten and labyrinthine and, yes, impromptu.

******************

Inexact Twine
--------------

This metaphorical representation of strange twine
Appeared to descend beneath its coil,
Appeared to tangle and contain such an infinity.
But it was crudely drawn; for, it bended
At right angles to be parallel with the ground.
And I could not determine its truth from this
Scrawl of impure magnification. I could not
Evaluate the precise swirl of this string; for,
It was false; it was artificial; it was
Introspective but yet flat and coarse.

Upwards, the concentric blur rose through
The hollowness of the ring. And under this,
The minimalist line betrayed its antecedent.
Under this elongated helix, there we
Sketched inexact twine; there we drew
But only the overt simplicity of abbreviation
Never truncated, never foreshortened or unintended.

+++++++++++

Along The Twine
-----------------

Along the twine, this smoke encourages such
Molecules. Oh, bent are the tubes, are the strings
Flung upwards, up towards such a stem. We reiterate
The froth. We twirl and indulge in our suffocation.
Along the thread, this surreal crawl becomes
Our dance. And we fly, we hang from coils and
Cylinders, hang from definitions of the void.
Along the wire, vertically are placed
Placeboes and lemniscates. Vertically we are
Elongated and enclosed, we are delicate in
Our most lavishly imprecise hatred. Ah, along
The lines correlated with their own distances,
All meanders and yet is rectified. There,
All is indifferent to this moisture, all is inept
And cowardly and cannibalistic. And there we yet
Sift through this crevice we are perilously adjoining.

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

Becoming My String
---------------------

Vertical and bland, such a cusp becomes my string.
Such string becomes all within me. And then it
Shatters as the cube, as the torrent of harsh and
Haphazard geometry. I might have arranged those lines
Upon their unending voice. I might have achieved
The artful grasp; but I instead revealed my own
Mentality to be inert. I instead resorted to anger,
To empty dismay. And I elevated my hand unto
The ceiling's simple upwardness. For above me, there
Inside us each, I knew to somehow scream, knew
To redeem the clock's angles. Oh, I knew yet
To sever the timid sky from my future. Because
Vertical and bland is
The syzygy of my scribbled penetration.

::::::::::::::::::

Out Of Strings Unwound
-------------------------------

If I tasted the strings binding us,
The strings which become our stale desires
To eat the colored wax which encases us,
Which encases our edible resurrection;
Then this childhood is sour and imploding
Into such rabid succulence suckling
Upon a fleshy shadow I realize
Is still blurred, upon spoken rapture
Transcribed. Perfection is its entanglement,
Is its simplicity coalescing, forming
Emptiness out of completion, forming
Completion out of strings unwound.

ooooooooooo

Coils
-------

Coils within coils, they astound
Themselves in their own estimations.
They compress down into the knot,
Then release into a strange flight.
For they are we, the springs we are.
They are disrespected for their libido;
Disenchanted by their purpose.
Yet they pretend to comprehend
The universe in its infinite; in its
Point infinitely large.
For they are the strings which
Make up all matter; they are
The helixes at the nucleus of
Each atom of life.
And they dare to behold their own
Virtue and intellect, but still
Ignore their ignorance, still fail
To believe in their own failure
At being more than only beautiful.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Wires
------

The wires of our random glee, they cut
And hold my mind within itself.
They grasp and coil and dimly enshroud
The misdirected shadows upon this edge.
And when idiocy becomes my distant metal,
I tangle and writhe underneath such
Illuminated superposition. For severed too
Is the essence of this scribbled thought.
Severed also is the glistening mesh of
These curled indications, is the blood
Of my symbolism, is the cord which still
Returns to its subdivision, which returns
To its wiry truth. For here
We are held by that separation.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sinew
--------

Misspelled are the vertexes of each
Polygon returning. Strained
Is the sinew which desires
To rise and ring, to be this convexity.
And counting these atoms placed
Into what is only convoluted,
I pull and yell at these wires
That seem to be our strands,
That number the misspellings yet,
That encrypt the sinews
As if they had risen just to be astray.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Every Threaded Strand
--------------------------

The shards defined, they tempt and taste
Every threaded strand of shame, of glue --
They interpret the soiled moments
Of each excess, of each diamond
Chaotic and plain.
Such vibration speaks the final truth,
Begging our dreams to explain
What they are, begging them to
Create the riddles entwined with themselves,
To scrawl upon an earthen cosmos
What regards these tirades, regards the anger
Which sweats and somehow congeals
Into mundaneness preening its edge,
An edge of spindly consciousness
Asking us to spare its concern
From its paradoxical wrath.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Leroy Quet

Little Beings

Since I just had a post about butterflies (the second post on such a topic), I will post on the miscellaneous non-butterfly buggers and other tiny animals.

First picture: "Coccinellid". (A Coccinellid is a member of the beetle family that includes ladybugs.) Second picture: "Snail". Third picture: "Shimmer Bug". And the last picture: "Forgotten Snail".





There This Bug
---------------

Arranged and aligned upon the edges of
Meandering lemniscates, there this bug became
The grub with a surreal and entangled exoskeleton.
There the scent of the din retreated to the lines
Upon which I crawl. And I am moist. I am
Soft and fluid, despite my slime. There is made
A spiral interwoven with spirals. There I am
But equal to my blood. And the wheel suffocates
My weighty introspection. For scalene are these
Trapezoids of my motion. Scrawled are these
Absurd conjectures proven valid and wondrous.
Scarce is the darkness inside where I am trivial,
Inside where I prolong the rotation of vertices
About a shell of certainty and screams.

======

Pearl Of A Snail
-----------------

The pearl of a snail, a stone coiled, converging,
It spirals and glows and appears to be nothingness.
And yet it is. And, still, this gem rots. Still,
This spheroid derives a helix from everything
And its uncertainty, perhaps. Oh, the sadness made
And formed into but a rock, it rises to fly;
But it cannot. For, the snail drags itself
Forth and into its convection. And it reiterates
Its hunger amongst its bending parable. It
Reiterates its allegories amongst its transformation.
This beautiful slime accumulates into a ball,
Into the incomplete laughter above us. And
The snail hides within its shell anew. For, there
It tames its vertigo; there, it tames the tilt
Of a world without loxodromes or moisture.

++++++++++

A Withered Snail Regretting
---------------------------------

Points drawn into lines into shapes made
Shapeless, made stunning and yet frail --
These conjectures of inconsistency, they
Intrude in among the emptiness we savor.
These assumptions of hyperbole, of
Hypothesis, they squeeze the spiral seen
Within these fingers, they become but
A withered snail regretting its ooze.

And these dots of psychotic amusement, they
Return to their width, to their height,
To their complicated concern. They
Hide within their shell; for there
The contemplation enrages us.

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

The Ellipsoid And The Insect
-----------------------------

Ah,
Regarding the ellipsoid, upon which rests the bug;
It is seemingly translucent and concave. But
Still it rises up from the tabletop, rises towards
The slender floor of our ghastly dreams. And it
Is superficial in its roundness. Although
It tapers into such perpendicularity formed.
For, within it is the subdivided labyrinth.
Within it is that tilted and horrendous redemption.

Oh,
Regarding the insect, under which is the ellipsoid;
It stagnates and stains the space-time that it
Once traversed. It rotated and prognosticated
And procrastinated, despite our resentful humanity.
Then it flung itself upward and diagonally,
Converging onto windows without topology.
And it became again the ellipsoid, surely.
It became the polyhedron of our abstinence soiled
And Aroused.

****************

Equilateral Wings
------------------

The equilateral wings of this symmetrical bug
Revealed us all to be savage. But in these
Aesthetics is discovered epitome and color, is
Found our worthwhile amnesia; for, it succumbs.

Oh, in amongst the cocoon, we here are wondrous.
Yes, we sleep, but we wake unto our vanishing,
Unto a demeaning dream made magnificent. And
In the imagined night we fly. We take our wings
And flutter; then we rise above the occurrences
We have suffered. We then rest upon the point,
Upon the pinnacle within us. And there, there we
Are but alive, yet we are transformed.

There we are aloft again, becoming the conceptions
In which we partake. Ah, we ascend just barely;
And thus we are triumphant. Thus we are flung
Beyond our world of equilateral wings, beyond
Ourselves once inscribed with such continuation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Becoming Unprepared For Truth
-------------------------------

Almighty ambiguity -- Inside the coiled seed
Resides the winged hexagon, a bug, surely. And
Inhabited is the dirt. Yet in this mud is formed
Both plant and insect, is formed nothingness.

Astounding is that abyss. For in its mouth
I evolve, I become unprepared for truth. In
Its awareness is sunlit paradox, is circumstance
Made from water, salt, and shape. And there
We sprout to embark upon conjecture.
There we question this fluid, question the air.
There we wonder why we wonder. But then
The answer revealed is forgotten. Then I
Become imprecise in my awakening. Then I
Conceive of my mindlessness. And therefore
The seed
Again endures its assumptions of enlightenment,
Of misunderstanding.

ooooooooo

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

More Butterflies Yet

This is my second post about butterflies.
See my first post on the topic (titled simply "Butterflies") here:
http://prism-of-spirals.blogspot.com/2008/07/blog-post_28.html


First picture (as promised in my post about entropy): "Entropy Of A Butterfly". Second picture: "Gumball World". Middle picture: "Someday". Fourth picture: "Opaque Fragility". Last picture: "Vision Of Essence".






Butterfly With Infinite Wings
--------------------------------

A butterfly with infinite wings, with a
Thousand proboscises, with a billion eyes -- it
Dares to fly, dares to rest upon the stagnant cusp,
Upon its very thirst where it is vaguely poised.
So, it resonates in hues of yellow, of purple.
It echoes in the tints of fuchsia and blue. Yes,
It is but imprecise in its magic. But then,
Then it needs not its spells; for, it is
Diffused and yet contained. And thus, it
Wakes to sleep, wakes to tilt the sky upwards.
And it launches itself so as to be beneath us.
It flies, stirring the arid rain, stirring
The gaping wind, stuttering inside its occlusion.
For, its infinite wings are denied their metaphor.
They are denied their triumph. But they are
Enduring; they are also spectacularly afloat.

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

Aloft And Distant
-------------------

Above these dreams, aloft and distant, is
A butterfly of magic and pondered colors.
And this insect's wings are fulfilled; for,
They descend and ascend inside their verticality.
Those wings are both round and imprecise.
And in their imprecision they obtain such
Thickness and dimension. Yet they are
Indescribable. Yet they are magnificent;
For, they are fuchsia and yellow and blue.
But assumptions seen within me resent this beauty,
Although I too am dichotomous and symmetrical.
I too fly in dreams made enduring. But
The butterfly is never proud of its levitation.
Its electric images are its metamorphosis.
Its allegories are its very amusement, are
Its embodiment as the flower it resembles.

===========

Nexus Of Our Symmetric Imbalance
------------------------------------

Intersecting such perpendicularity, the spaces extend
Upwards and horizontally into their nonconformity,
Into their foreshortening not explainable, oh. Yes,
Upon the nexus of our symmetric imbalance,
The coils remain jagged, and the angles are
Devoid of this broth of thought. Intersecting
The equilibrium of butterflies, of bowties and epitome,
There our gambits divine truest fruition.
There the topology curls into that diameter.
And we ignore those shapes. For, they are us.
They are the emergence of pompous imbeciles.
And, surely, we derive from the scene
A malicious interpretation. Then we crumple
This origami in our fanged fists. Then
We laugh, because we are amorphous. We
Are human monsters drawn among the spirals, drawn
Among the labyrinths we attempt to circumscribe.

***************

Butterfly Blood
-------------------

Butterfly blood, yet it stirs, yet it beckons
Unto the shattered mandala. Butterfly blood,
It transforms from caterpillars of magnitude into
Such resurrection. Dripping, dripping onto my
Allure. Dripping, it drips again onto the floor.
Butterfly blood, tell me of its beginning.
Sleeping until the dream shimmers and rises
Towards the night. Rising, it is evaporating
Quietly. Butterfly blood, tell me of our truth.
Butterfly blood, it is told amongst continuation,
Continuing to evoke enlightenment. Glowing,
Glowing, it transforms. Dripping, dripping as
Our sadness. Butterfly blood, it turns clear,
Remaking itself into this conclusion. See us,
See us fly. Fly. Butterfly blood, see the riddles
Tell us why. Bye.

+++++++++

My Cocoon
---------------

My inspiration has died and become cold.
But I seek still the release of the bonds
Which constrain me as a butterfly, a butterfly
Held tightly within its cocoon just prior
To its emergence, the release of all
Human divinity, the spectacular escape
Unto a world otherwise gray and dark.
For this insect is iridescent and irradiant.
And it has achieved its fantastic longing.

But now (and possibly always, it seems)
I am encased deeply within my vapid
And paranoid imagination, my cocoon.
For I may indeed die here, never
To realize my grandiose possibilities.
Yes, I am snug. Yes, I am embraced.
But that embrace belongs only to my prison.
For no love finds me nor is searching
For my saddened soul. I am contained
Here and always within this eternal
And vacuous trance, this illusion that
I might someday express my wings
Upon this world which awaits them,
And finally fly free, beautifully,
Yet content in my inevitable loneliness.

oooooooooo

Meaningless Butterflies
-----------------------------

Into the flight of bizarre butterflies
Is the collapse within circumferences, is
The abandonment of design, of this shell,
Is the veil of fire, is what is beheld:
Every fleck of odd snow, every atom alone;
Is the forgiveness dripping off our chins,
Is light and crystal shunning our nihilism,
Shunning the meaningless butterflies,
Shunning
The meaningless sparks falling through the center
Of what is only that madness which remains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Butterflies Circled
---------------------------

I would still write of butterflies circled
By each sky
Of viscous and vicious uncertainty.
I would still speak of rain destroying
The idea of wretched thirst
Not quenched but before longing.
I would still dream
Of my travels through passageways,
Through windows seen then known
Then again understood.
And again, I would still write
Of the butterflies bright, aglow,
And multi-hued,
And solidly their essences
And too unreal but ever so
Only contemplated.

"""""""""""""""

(Here is a poem related to the center picture above.)

Someday
-----------

I will someday draw butterflies
Constructed completed out of circles,
As some ancient geometric proof
Which may have only seemed to trisect
Angles, yet instead just barely doubled
The area of the square placed
On the edge of my mind’s concrete floor.

I will someday find inspiration
In beauty never understood, in ugliness
Known only for its beauty, in emptiness
Known just because it represents everything.

I will someday find that passageway
Which leads to my awakening, to
The maze becoming flat no more,
To all the colors I have told you
About so many times prior, told you
That I swore I saw them glowing
On the wings of butterflies made
Entirely out of circles, circles somehow shaped
Into whatever I have wanted them to be.

,,,,,,,,,,,

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Games Inexactly Metaphorical

The theme for today: Games (Abstract games played with a piece of paper and a pencil or two, mostly.)

Picture: "Prayerless Game". (I can't remember if I meant to call this picture "PLAYERLESS Game" instead, or if I was just being weird.)



(I just wrote this first poem today.)

Wonder Without Interconnection
---------------------------------

So as to ask us to be precise and trisected, ah,
I inflated, as did we, the circumspect cubes with
Their own actuality of substance. We alternated,
Placing our opponent's timidity within our mesh.
For, then, then the haphazardness overwhelmed us.
Then I drew straight dimensionless lines throughout
From perimeter to perimeter. I drew the angles
Tilted but not pivoting; yet they thrust themselves
Between the squares. *0*0*0* And we contemplated
This game's lack of water or mechanism.
We contained the rotation of our dreams
Within a column and a row both obtuse.
And then I crossed our previous edges, and
I became faulty, but so did we. Oh, we rose
To cast ourselves among these ruptures
Of wonder without interconnection, of
Distress without constituent, without stability.

===========

Unintentional Cards
--------------------

Unintentional cards were taken from their symmetry.
Each black and each white shard was placed
Upon this tabletop. I tasted the subdivision of
Such arrangement. For, I hid within the images
Of palindromes imagined. And she gazed onto
A preconceived line. She stared onto a row once
A column. And she detected among it
The circles of balance. And I, I found in her
The very same tableaux. In her permutation
I saw my own impossibility. Ah, she counted
The theorems I had remade. And then, then
I succumbed to her transliteration. I succumbed
To the game I had betrayed. She was
Oppressed by my dichotomy, yes. But I too
Enumerated unintentional cards. I too was clever.

++++++++

Vertices Non-Adjacent
------------------------

Imagined is the intermediate maze, a game
Made from numbers and aesthetic sleep.
Imagined is every dream of beauty's knife.
Imagined are the crumbs underneath this grid.
And I imagined the diagonal lines. They
Connected vertices to non-adjacent vertices.
Ah, I imagined the penciled polygons, these
Sections carved from squares. And I drew this
Derivation emerging, drew the protractor
Once a straightedge. And I imagined such
Fluid and salt converging upon the tapestry.
And there we partake in the conflict,
Partake in our own thoughts now imagining.
There we scribe the subtle intricacies
Onto paper plaid and blank. Then again these
Imagined rotations are abstract; they are
Bent into our finalities enumerated, into
Our visions each devoid of interpretation.

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

Without Any Dream Of Dimension
---------------------------------

Etched into chaotic grids, the concave point
Curved beneath the vastness beyond it. Ah, this
Trajectory within us, it became strange; but
Yet it contained its very continuation.
Yes, integers against integers transformed it.
Then every atom of the paper page crumpled.
And that vertex condensed into its triteness.

For, I partake in the actuality of such
Mathematics. And I suppose that numbers
Divide into my calculation. But when I am
Demeaned by the grid -- a game invoked -- I
Become my own distress. I become again
But an uncertain dot; For, I am without
Any dream of dimension. I am without any
Superimposed blur perplexingly counterintuitive.

*************

Invisible Game
---------------

Upward, rightward, downward, upward again -- drawn is
This invisible game. For, it too is symmetric. It too
Is coiled into angles and lines, into arcs and
Polygons defined by their edgelessness. For, intersecting
Are the topologies never combined, never intersecting.
Indecisive are the grids of mismatched bifurcation,
Are the curving diameters of triangles subdivided.

So, into the maze, there the pencil scribes, tearing
At the perpendicularity of our strategies torn.
And we erase the retrograde distances we ignore.
But soon the square implodes, becoming the void
Underneath which we scrawl, scrawl both images and
Imagination upon such an aesthetic, upon
Such an invisible game forlorn, made into its
Nonexistence, into its inspiration
Of iridescent dimensions concocted.

##############

Dots Upon The Maze
--------------------

Precisely, this was not what it almost was,
A triangle barely actual. And yet we placed
The dots upon the maze. We did, as I recall,
So as to honor the squares, the triangles
Each not quite. For, at intersections undisturbed
Were these nonconformist vertices made. Yet they
Never concealed such thoughts. Then, finally,
The lines were drawn, upward and horizontally,
Then rightward and vertically. Still, I came to be
Vain, came to be impressed. Oh, in this completion
I saw triangles and triangles not exact, saw
Quadrilaterals and pentagons and maybe nothing more.
We counted the edges, counted the polygons,
Enumerated the depictions of enumeration.
But somehow the game was incomprehensible;
Somehow the wonder we imply was spitefully resolved.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Inexactly Drawn
-----------------

Drawn are the spheres each equal to my iris;
Drawn are these shadows upon the string,
Upon enlightenment and light. Drawn is again
The image of images; is the vision of metaphors.
Drawn is the glass, is the spark, is the water
Dripping into oblivion, into such categories
Of moisture.
And I drew the perpendicularly acute diagonals
Within the point itself within the vertex. And
I transformed curvature into seclusion, transformed
Scrawl redeemed into such formulae unmade.
And I drew the circle without center, drew it
Inside its own reciprocals and synapses, drew
The games' pronouncements onto dimensions
All elevated and lateral, all benign in their
Interpretations sketched intriguingly,
But inexactly drawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Those Numbers Dreamt
-------------------------

Inaccurately I dispel the ink, placing it anew
Within each square that I count, that I contain.
Subdivided are the rows and columns into a
Ponderous mesh. For, I stare upon these finitudes.
And I strain to differ in such elongation, in such
Amplitudes. Oh, intermittent are the lines, these
Topologies of vertical versus horizontal.
Yet they coalesce about their zeroness. They
Clump about their bifurcation. Yes, the
Pencil and pen and paint subside, only to remain
In their flatness. Finally, we think of those
Numbers dreamt. Finally, it is determined
Which player of the game has transcended our
Conformity; it is determined what our boredom has
Resolved, has placed in balance among our lack
Of formulation.

oooooooooooo

This Game Of Forever
------------------------

This game of forever, it desires its depth,
It is determined to distract us from
The nebula of unpronounceable photons.
Do these remnants of slender glass
Defy the annuli drawn as if foreshortened?

Augmented it is by sultry light traced upon
The haphazard intersections of lines
And their incarnations, traced upon
Insipidness, upon drops of shattered space;
It is by coincidence denied but ever elusive,
But ever devoid of any astringent anagram
Except that which is our adjective,
Which is a game both miniscule and large,
Both convex and hidden within
The thickness of points randomly stale.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

This Game Of Edges
-------------------------

I understood, misunderstood, the similarity,
Knew that I had forgotten
That that is surrounded within such insignificance,
That was this game of edges.

Surrounded by, within, such color and number,
We prayed, we played, upon the clock,
Upon the chessboard disordered
And now shattering.

I understood this simplicity
To never equate equality
With analogy with matter
Or with pattern or images of image.

For images of images of games of the edges,
These, as is forgotten and explained,
These are but made from adjacency, from loneliness,
Despite the definitions of finality, of emptiest assumptions

As to what is the text of the rules
Of a game misshapen and mistook.

//////////



See the games that inspired these poems at:
http://gamesconceived.blogspot.com/