Drawing That Circle

This is the second post I am making today. This post's theme: Compasses and scribes (the kind that one draws circles with).

First picture: "Compass For Arachnids". Second picture: "Scribe".



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

Here is a poem that rhymes. (I don't remember writing this.)

Of A Path Unfollowed
----------------------------

Where within nowhere sought,
This path follows then follows not.
This vision dark seeks no beauty known
As to where within has this path shown.

As to where I draw upon a polygon
A maze, a clock, a compass wrong,
And wrongly pointing but to nowhere sought,
This path is unfollowed, and then ever not.

So the segments hued bounce and intersect;
They scrawl the web in which to connect,
They circle inward into a point
Of a path unfollowed and now disjoint.

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

Deconstruct, Reconstruct
---------------------------

I deconstruct, reconstruct the compass. For its
Circles are complicated. For they intersect
The ellipses of inflection, intersect obtusely
These arctangents of equilibrium and sugar.
I deconstruct, reconstruct the prism. For its
Oblique refraction envisions itself to be both
Answer and hallucination, to be both a dream
And a cardioid turning inwardly, I am sure.
I deconstruct, reconstruct the spiral. For its
Causality is its enclosure. Oh, its center
Is its radius. But yet I recede
Into this crescendo; yet we dare to gaze
At that crescent, at the edges cutting.

Ah, I deconstruct, reconstruct all that is beauty.
And it therefore speaks into its shape, speaks
Into the circles drawn by such a compass, by
Such a scribe strange in its asymmetry
Thanklessly desired.

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

Resilient Megaphone
---------------------

Upon the turntable -- a compass, a lathe -- spun
Hollowness' arcs converging. For heard were
The sounds of the firmament within this tautology. Heard
Were the pulses and static of all truth eviscerated
By our own collapse. Spinning was each radius, was
Each circumference once diagonal. Spun was purpose,
Was the spiral carved into spheres, carved into
Entropy now surely obvious. Epitomized was
The voice of my calligraphy, of my thoughtful prism.
Epitomized was the machine underneath which is
The needle, the wires, the gears, underneath where
Reality succumbs to damp profanity, where I
Yell throughout the equilibrium of my dreams, where
I define the polyhedrons that we have endured, where
I describe without exaggeration such
A resilient megaphone.

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

Then Such A Semicircle
-------------------------

The arc of thoughts drawn by that multilateral compass
Achieves its distance via its direction, achieves its hue
Translucent and elliptical yet dark. And then such
A semicircle hinders its own truncation. And
Therefore the curve equals the trigonometry of ourselves,
Of magnitudes made from only inertia, yes.

The chord meandered upon this subdivided paper,
Becoming both abbreviated and abrupt, becoming again
Either luminescent or dim. Ah, surely, it is seen
And converges as a retrograde coil, as the orbit
Of a moonless world wondering just what has been sketched
Into the stone sky. What, I too wonder, is this
Profound oneness within a timid cosmos, is this finitude
Dissected into infinity, dissected into arcs and lines
Each arriving beyond our perceptions of extraction?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A Compass Drawing
--------------------------

A compass drawing
Always-converging
And always-fantastically-colored spirals,
It is alone within its resistance
To circles too simple and beloved
(And complete and conformist). It is
A compass which draws twine tangled
And equal to only itself. It is
An idea unseen, unimagined,
An idea returning to its center
To again its circumference to again
Its existence
As simply this scriber, this instrument,
Written of but never revealing
Upon any page its purpose,
Its unexpected genesis,
A genesis of this encirclement,
Of this
Any reality symbolic or formed.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Ripples

This is the first of two posts I am making today. This post's theme: water ripples.

Picture: "Vastness Exaggerated"



Ripples
---------

My tears imagined fall into the silent pond,
The stillness of our distress. And
These drops of purity form the circles,
The ripples, which express our universe
In its own poetry sung quietly unto
A world destroyed and delighted by so many
Globes of water falling, transforming light,
Becoming light, becoming circles interfering
With each other, becoming rings of perfection
Spoken and then quieted until
Tears fall once more.

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

Water Made Of Our Drowning
-----------------------------------

Swallowed are the distinct verbs of this
Which ripples and emanates from its breath,
Emits from its sorrowful partitions of one
And two and three and four subdivided
Into practicality unconcerned with
Its own suffocating soul. Surreal
Is this oddness equaling a multiple
Of evenness, is the addition of zero
Onto every integer of our sacrifice, onto
Each relic of distrustful skies, onto still
The thirst for water made of our drowning, made
Of a spirit compartmentalized by such a throat.


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

Into The Ripples
------------------

In the abrupt turmoil of fluid and pain
Arrived the violent soothing for which we each yearn.
And all the absurdity and eruption then coalesced,
Remaking itself into the simple ripples, curving outwards,
Radiating softly from a once haphazard center.
Ah, now we rest, and soon we metamorphose into
The silent dream within this pool, within this
Timid but perfect madness. Softly, the droplet
Exaggerates its entropy. And it strikes the stillness,
Toppling the prism in which we observe actuality.
And the splashing and spilling are subdued. For,
They eradicate themselves in their interference.
Then the ripples leave the air and transform themselves
To become the light above us. Yet
We continually assume we are earthen; yet we somehow
Believe the water is our distance. But it is
That distance that is our wondrous liquidity.

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

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.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

A Fulcrum Itself Tilting

Today's theme: fulcrums. (Yes, fulcrums.)

The pictures' titles: "Within The Fulcrum", "Fulcrum Of Enlightenment", "An Equilateral Fulcrum".





The first two poems I will share with you I wrote just yesterday and the day before:

Predetermined Fulcrum
----------------------

A fulcrum enclosed, encased inside the sphere
Of water and glass and geometry -- this spiral,
It tilts and tapers and expands and explodes
Into dimension and truth and tautology. Oh,
In these cliches of resurrection the glow becomes
A triangle, a trapezoid, an abacus of thought.
And I enumerated those empty dreams. For in them
Is the crescent, is the rhombus, are the droplets
Forming air-bubbles rising, falling, transforming.
In the strangeness of beauty is the one vertex
Of delicate dissection. But still, the space
Among us each is beheld throughout, is
Vague and finite and vertical; still, the
Fulcrum succumbs to its predetermination, to
Its consequence of absolution, of purity submerged.

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


The Pivot Returns
------------------

Intermittently,
The pivot returns to its perpendicularity,
To its parallel fulcrum upon the paper, upon
The tabletop made of assumptions, made of balance yet
Truthful and also bending. Intermittently, this
Gyroscopic mechanism tilts then falls, failing in its
Purpose, as we have. For, we too are asymmetric,
Despite our dichotomies. We too are never to fly.

Intermittently, the tangle becomes us, as we were
Once the scribbled scrawl of delusions. Yes, we
Are flung across the surface of reality, because
We are but inarticulate contraptions. We
Are but the spinning object, once upright,
Now toppled. But we continue to rotate, I suppose,
In the hope that we will someday succeed.
Yes, we hope that we will someday be magnificent.
But we can only come to know those prophecies
As misguided and selfish. Oh, maybe we will
Soon realize that we cannot ever again be made
Vertical, realize that we will never again achieve
Anything other than our doubtfulness, than
Our final placement sideways, resting on the floor.


===========

Dark Is The Pivot
-----------------------

Dark is the pivot equal to its own fulcrum.
Oh, this surface of flat and concentric squares, it
Spins and condenses into noxious emptiness. It
Abstains from those malfunctioning thoughts, from
These perfumed crumbs of enlightenment and salt.

Dark is the perimeter of simmering shape,
Are the bending obstructions deduced to be devalued.
Dark are the photons of enigma and shadow, are
The selfish prayers which endure the scriptures
Of spite. Dark are the ravaged paragraphs
Made then forgotten then scorned then shameful.
And darker yet is the continuation of destiny,
Is the swollen riddle (a devout vibrato), is
The circumference of bizarre simplicity, are
Such inventions surely slain by trite elastic.

+++++++++++

Center Of The Fulcrum
-----------------------

Imbalance; its beauty refracts within this arousal,
Returning her to the vastness beyond me. And there
She is the sunlight becoming a trapezoid. There
She is invoked by my prayers of stark betrayal.

For she tilts, then becomes her own doppelganger;
She becomes, as I, the dichotomy inside herself.
Oh, unbalanced are these cobwebs equal to such
Angry arachnids, each web created by this allure
And apparition, created via the polyhedron
Strangely sticky.

And she equals equation and distance conjured.
She evaporates before I speak of her, before
These particles of absurd and shimmering femininity
Implode into their vortexes at the center of
Such an inflection, at the center of the fulcrum
Both askew and diffuse, neither loved nor
Sought -- As I stare at her, she slips
At angles of wondrous mis-calibration.


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

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.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Insects

Beware the meager bug. It is more than you could ever imagine.

Top picture: "Undefined Are The Insects". (I admit, this isn't a picture that is literally about insects.)
Bottom picture: "Geodesic Spider".




This Bug Of Scribbled Circumstances
-----------------------------------------

And the insect cringed beneath this voice.
And it hid beneath its exoskeleton of imagination.
For here the loops intersected the circle.
Here the creature descended into itself,
Into the shell of brilliant transparency.
For there among the hard darkness was
This bug of scribbled circumstances.
And it crept upwards into its vanishing. It
Devoured the vision of itself, devoured
The shapeless aspect of its possibilities.
For it extracted its seclusion from within,
From within its trite existence as certainty
Without form, yet provoked.


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

This Insect's Halting Perfection
-------------------------------------

The shimmering and slanted shell of this
Topaz bug, it glistened yet remained
The cinder within. It stirred itself,
And floated despite its absorbency. Yes,
It, this insect's halting perfection, it bled
The dim daylight upon such an edge. And
There, here, among the blandness was what
Has defiled this charisma. For beneath
The body of plush crumbs and dire elegance
Was the difficult glow we inspire so as
To shudder and expel those poignant
But elliptical silhouettes each succulent
And hopefully strained between that crevice,
Between a beautiful bug and its saddened skin.


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

Such Is The Bug
-----------------

Carelessly entwined, arachnids with lepidoptera
Each twirl in their redemption; each arise
From vowels and thunder so as to coil inside
Their ambidextrous voice. Ah, such is the bug.
This is the crustacean without form, without any
Madness otherwise adroit. This is the insect
Flung forth into strange trajectory, falling
As syllables upon cement, upon overt tapestries
Made poignant. Carelessly entwined, such flesh
Becomes distant from those exoskeletons.
And they are the seeds without amnesia. They
Have been the spectacular speck underneath us,
Under the vast air of our despicable perversion.
For the bugs are jagged, are afloat, are docile
And bilateral and enclosed within the cusp,
Within the purity of certainty rather miniscule.


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

Inside My Exoskeleton
-----------------------

I was an insect. I was the iridescent grub, was
The flying caterpillar, a butterfly never obtained.
I was a magnificent cockroach -- for, I created
The world inside where I scurried. I was
The mosquito devoid of libido. I was
The bee careful in my sting. I was but
A fly loved for my triteness. I was but
A moth, transparent in my dimensions.
I was the locust -- but yet I hid, surely.
I was the beetle. And I surrendered again, yet I
Did not die. I was a grotesque bug, yes. And
Thus I did not adore humanity. I was
An insect; and therefore I became complete.
Oh, I remained inside my exoskeleton, remained
Underneath my actuality. For, there I was despised.

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

A Superstitious Insect
-----------------------

That insect's only virtue was its disease. For, it
Was not to be devoured, because it was indifferent
To its inner disgust. And yet it itself feasted upon
The nectar within us each. It then regurgitated,
Destroying its purpose within such amber. It remained
The beast of our paranoia. It scurried into the sand,
Into the crevice above all equations. It hid there
Inside our exaggeration, inside the entanglement
Of human earth and pristine dimensions. It hid under
The truthfulness of our ironic lies. And it was
Disturbing and maniacal. It was the insect,
A bug that behaves superstitiously, but not as we.
It gazes too upon the stars, yet forgets
That it cannot see them. It is moist. It is
Slandered. It is but ignorant of its own wealth,
Ignorant of its own delicious breath resounding.

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

Parallel Wings
---------------

Parallel wings, each a tapered eclipse once
Made from parchment and glass -- they float despite
This meandering insect's own decapitation. Oh,
Vertically arranged are these thoughts devoid of mass.
They become the light that does not exist. And
Then they descend unto our begotten sadness,
Descend onto the tabletop of oblivious reality.
I am encased here beneath them. And so I think
Of trite contemplation. I grasp all meaninglessness,
And so it fails in its triumph. I compress
The world into the crevice in the sky. And I
Then ascend aloft; for I
Unfold those parallel wings. I am encircled. I
Am but a mindless creature, am but an ugly bug
Hidden inside my abstinence, inside the cloth
Of transparent and porous metaphors now weightless.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Flying As A Bird

Today's theme (something to soothe my anger after the post I last made to this blog):
Birds and flight.

Barely Above The Floor
--------------------------

Our flight succumbs to the wind. But then we
Betray the distance underneath what we have
Traversed. Then we become the syzygy again
Of wasp, of butterfly, of a bird dreamt of still.
But, therefore, we have assumed the sky
To be ours. We have presumed the cosmos
Was equal to its own glass. We have ascended yet
Unto those scalene circles, each dire
Despite our vertigo. And upwards we fly,
Until we are barely above the floor, until
We can grasp the window seen, until
We too evolve into our shame, evolve into
The tiresome swirl of gusts and thermals
Within this exodus of self from consideration.

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

A Cowardly Bird
----------------

I assumed that I too was the bird, that I was
Avian in my epitome, in my totality coinciding
With the completion of all. Yet I never
Fly, but in my dreams. I cannot rise to become
More than human, more than trite. For, I fear
The expanse above me. So, I remain secluded here
Underneath the clouds. I remain perched
Upon the artificial world, although
I hope to someday rise.
But now I am surely a grounded creature. I
Am surely wilting into the air, into the very wind
For which I long. And my death impends. But I
Am not concerned by that. I only wish to deny
My self-betrayal. Therefore, I am a cowardly bird,
Am a flightless spirit redeemed only by my wisdom,
Redeemed only by my nonconformity.


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

The Bird Within The Maze
-------------------------

The bird within, within the maze -- yes, it is free
To fly above the walls and gaze down upon
This puzzle. And questions are asked, but never remain.
Oh, why does the bird just sit atop these corridors,
Neither ascending nor attempting to triumph? It is,
I suppose, not obsessed with human contests. It
Does not contemplate the same riddles that concern
Our own minds. But yet, yet it does.
It only sees beyond the game; and it
Knows that humanity built this maze. So, why
Should the bird imagine what we also imagine?

Oh, it finally lifts upwards and stares back
At the turbulent earth. And it observes us each
Straining to solve life's labyrinths. And it
Has a question of its own to ponder. Why,
Why did humankind build such pathways? For, I,
The bird, am truly free. And I am finally
Afloat above our world fragmented into
Its trite occupation with our
Superstitions, with our arbitrary shame depicted
Amongst the maze and its geometries of
Flightlessness grounded by all such conjectures.


+++++++++++

That's it for today. I have already shared with you the poems "Peahen" and "Ornithopter", which are related to today's theme.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Hate's Purgatory

This is the second post I have made today. This post's theme is violence.

Note: This material may be offensive to some. Children especially are encouraged to not read the poems in this particular post. (All of my other posts, so far, are okay for general audiences, I must stress.)

Convulsively Spilled:



The Blast
-----------

The blast exudes its nonconformity. And it is
Frustrated by its clangorous confinement. But yet
This irradiant tangle explodes; it thrusts its hues
Forth into such a lustful mandala. Oh, expressed
Is the thunderous evisceration. Expressed is that
Scream of manic and voluminous havoc. Outwardly,
The flame is triumphant. Oh, gaseous stains and
Crumbled truth, they both are transformed via
This enigmatic anger. And all is returned anew
To the center of spirals. All is made taboo; yet
Even these whispers are singed.

Perpendicularly, the heat vanquishes us.
For force and tribulation are compounded,
Are our ruptured and torn condemnation. For the
Blast is our purpose. And our death only reiterates
The hatred endured by purity, reiterates the purity
Endured by this fire coarsely and destructively
Mispronounced.

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

Rape Of The Succubus
--------------------------

The rape of the succubus:
Among the mind's divergent edges, I tangle
Within such a whispered dream. And she
Pronounced the screams of subtle air so as
To fall upon the obtuse floor. And there
Her nudity flung me forward, pulling me onto
The filth we denounce. And I fell above her,
Toppled into her imagined convexity. And
I felt such constriction never before extracted
From any prior reality. Ah, and breath withdrew
Before I, before this dimness savaged us both.
And ecstasy spoke of its demanding hallucinations,
Of its curvaceous fissures each deepened
By their own shallowness. And then, then
This sleep betrays me, and such pleasures
Become the cosmic sweat, become the succubus
And her own dreams sullied.

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

A Darkness More Violent
-------------------------------

Upon that earth was beget
The shit of Satan.
Upon our world came
Humanity.
And it evolved to become killers,
To become mass-murderers.
It evolved to be perverted,
Never to be satiated.
And it fancied itself intelligent.
So intelligent was it that it hated
And destroyed all that it considered
Not quite as smart.
This, it thought, was a wise thing to do.
It believed itself correct in all assumptions,
So correct that many who disagreed
Were tortured and exterminated.
And it attacked that beautiful world
Unto which the shit of Satan fell.
It destroyed that world.
And it seethed at its own reflection,
For it knew deep within its collective soul
That it was vile,
In spite of all the virtue
It convinced itself that it had.
And so it turned on itself
And imploded into a black hole,
A point of infinite hatred and villainy
And a darkness more violent
Than even that humanity, that horrid humanity,
Could have ever conceived of.

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

The Murderer
-----------------

The soul feasts sometimes upon its desires,
Upon its thoughts pondering exactly what
It wants to commit, what it wants to take.

Oh, I am not a killer. I have not the gall.
But that fool, that idiot, he is pure evil.
And to eradicate that demon from our world,
Eliminate him somehow in any way,
This would be a saintly act, not a sin.
To do this deed, so out of character
For a man as pure as I, to pull the trigger,
This would be expected of me, wouldn’t it?
And wouldn’t the priests and gods concede
That I must finally act out the fantasy,
Make it real, act on that obsession
Which has haunted me and my concentration?

If I were to do this, do what is necessary,
I would have to be very dedicated,
Be precise, careful, exact in this execution.
For death is a terrible means to an end;
But sometimes this is a sad inevitability,
The sweet song
Sung by innocents wronged.

And the pistol would be raised, as in toast
To virtue’s ultimate victory.
And the powder would explode, the bullet fly
Into that vile flesh, shredding it bloodily
And beautifully.

Yes, I am the assassin of that monster,
The executioner who murders the murderer
For the benefit, the good, of my righteous anger.

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


Malignancy
-----------

Such selfishness burst. Then the fluids gushed
Forth from our innocence. And we
Drank of these amniotic droplets. We drank of
The rancid flames. And we screamed the
Words without definition. For our desires were
To cut into the minds of our hatred,
Into the guts of our pompous enemies. For,
They were, as we, belligerent. They were,
As we, despicable and human. Oh, we tore
Apart their tantrums. And we begat the stains
Of that timid gore. We were murderers, but yet
We were not. For, murderers have purpose
In their vile obscenity. They have conclusion.
But we, we kill for misguided reasons; because
We believe the lies, even when we know of their
Inaccuracies; because we retell the parables of
The malicious scripture, of the malignancy
Infusing our indulgences.

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

Afterthought: I should note, especially to those in law-enforcement who are monitoring my blog, none of these poems are meant to be taken literally. I am NOT a murderer, an assassin, a terrorist, or a rapist. (Trust me.)

Leroy Quet

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

The Peahen

Only one poem today. No pictures.

I wrote this only a couple days ago. It may not be the most amazing poem, but then.... it is not suppose to be.

The Peahen
-----------

She might have been as beautiful as a peacock;
But we were not inspired by her, the peahen.
Oh, amongst any other species she would have been
Extraordinary. Her lucid browns and fantastic tans
Radiated in their own iridescence. But still,
Poetry was not written of her. Still, she was
Not seen to be our metaphorical hallucination.

For, it was not her purpose to satiate humanity.

Oh, she rose unto the trees, further than
Any cosmic photon had, rose unto the glow
That complicates our nights. And she was
Lovely, yes, but forgotten. She was the peahen,
A submissive bird, perhaps. But she knew
That all beliefs were derived from dreams.
She knew that she too was psychedelic, knew
That in her less spectacular image, she was
Yet more imaginative, was yet more eternal and
Strange, was yet as a flower, a perfect fowl
Depicted abstractly within her apathy and libido.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Symmetry Of The Mandala 3