Water Droplets

Today's themes are water droplets and rain.

The first picture is titled "Rain On Screen Window". The second picture is "Rainbow Seed". The third picture is "Vague Amnesia". And the last picture is "Mental Longitudes".






In Its Rain
-------------

The puddle of rain revealed its opacity,
Its transparence made fantastic,
To the air and Earth and to the minds
Of idiots obsessed with their own genius.
And this vacuum in which the Earth hides,
It is in turn complete and insignificant,
Beautiful and obscene.
Yet these invisible illusions, this
Invisible light, all of it is contained totally
In the darkness we all are in love with,
In the emptiness which explains itself.
And all the universe is soaked in its rain,
In its magical drops of water, its prisms
Within prisms; But, alas,
The rainbow forming is shaded incorrectly,
Is shaded with
Colors and hues, none of which
Are anything but absolutely strange.

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

As Nothing Other Than Rain
-----------------------------

The crystalline rain once inspired me.

But since enlightenment is now found
Only inside dimmest darkness,
I have not yet desired again
To write of the gods of love
Nor those of hatred, nor write of ourselves
Desiring pleasures more fantastic
Than white-noise
And absence
And numbers too abstract
To achieve anything other than
The most benign substance of my madness.

I have not yet desired again
To fall from this sky
As nothing other than rain,
Than rain which is describable
Solely as being transparent.
(For this which is above us shatters...
Into shards of watery glass.)

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

This Transfixed Water
----------------------------

This transfixed water of such a sponge
Drips throughout its melodious mesh;
For these eternal tears have returned
To our one fragile emptiness, returned
To an elaborate peace previously composed
From the syllables of our madness,
From climatic voices which invoke
The droplets plain and resurrected,
Which invoke the prism that alludes
To the vanishing rain, to simplistic mud,
To sorrowful liquid quite arid, quite
Aroused, quite turbulent and unsightly.


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

In This Subjective Water
----------------------------

Intuitively the surface surrenders its liquid,
Leaving our arid dreams to exist as such a clamor.
In this subjective water we may have seen
The fingerprints of swallowed air, have seen
The gibbous moon in retrograde. And
This repetition of unjust prisms, it too
Is its space, is its suction, is this, the
Artificial conjugation imprisoned but cleaved.
As I dare to shun the circles in the sky,
I also conjecture that meaninglessness
Is the epitome of our love, conjecture that
This solidity beneath me is the aesthetic dawn,
Is the strangely converging riddles of distortion,
Of a deserted lens somehow distantly exhumed.


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

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.


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

Leroy

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.

------------------

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