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

Do Words Describe Themselves?

Hi, again. I am sorry that I haven't posted in more than a week. (The amount of time between successive posts to this blog is getting bigger and bigger, if you haven't noticed.) I should say that if you are craving some poetry (or computer art), but I haven't posted in a while, then go back and read some of my older posts. I have posted 50-60 posts to this poetry blog, as of now.

Today's theme: Poetry and poems. (No computer art, though.)


Some poetry about poetry:
---

A Haiku Of Nearly A Million Words
-----------------------------------

Drawn upon the sky
Was a haiku of almost
One million sad words.


Upon the sky I drew
A haiku of nearly a million words.
But yet only one metaphor was remembered; and
Yet the ghosts stared upwards onto surreal night.
Yes. Of geometry, of each dimension, of imagination
Always imprecise -- I was conscious of this verse
Hewn from rotation and stagnation,
Cut from dichotomy and solitude surely
Perceived in this hallucination of everything.

Ah, upon the sky I drew
Atoms of epitome and wonder.
And, still, my vowels became my verbs, became
The poetry without antagonism or amnesia. For,
Phonemes sketched inside me, oh, they demanded
I write of their pronunciation. But, alas, these
Wings of my fingertips, they took the pen, and
Then I was conjugated; then I was haphazard
And literal. But never was I strained by
Any such curious allegory coarsely comprehended.

+++++++++

A Poem Aloft And Forgone
-------------------------

In those dreams, in my dreams of her, I presumed
To write this forgotten poem. And I might
Have woken to draw again the words. But such
Was false. Those verbs and nouns and
Tender adjectives failed me and my senility.

Oh, I told her the parables of un-described and
Indescribable verse. But she retreated to her intellect.
She spoke of the substance of my mathematics. She
Spoke of tangled truth coiled anew in polyhedra.
And then I grasped her beauty, and I kissed
Her imagined mouth, a tangential nexus once puckered.
Then the pleasure unknown to my reality
Overcame us both. And I recited the poem
That is now aloft and forgone. I recited
The tragedy of solitude, the tragedy of concealment
Soon denied, soon to be depicted and questionable.

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

Of Such Purple And Words
-----------------------------------

She was so the angel perfect
Caught within the maze an abacus.
I know, yes, I have written previously
Of such purple and words.
But the powers of good desire
My rotation upon the inside
Of a spiral mandala illuminated.
Okay.
She was every circle without center,
Without circumference or emotion.
And caught among our world,
A game of cobwebs
And unwoven silk,
We knew nothingness,
And still we slept again.
Again we read this poem
While time-travelling to the present,
This poem of madness benign,
This poem of purple, of words.

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

A Poem Made
------------------

This poem contains not a soul,
Possesses not an essence,
Does not equal meaning aside from its words
Combined and arranged
In an unexpectedly simple sequence
Falsely of the patterns
Plaid, square, circular, and curved,
Falsely triangular and hexagonal,
Truly just of an edge
(Its own encompassing),
Truly an edge which is ours,
An edge yet never defining any more
Than this unspectacular poem,
A poem made and written so as to only justify
My seeming intellect
Waking, woken, and resisting,
Resisting the returning night.
(For night,
It shuns such composition.
And day,
It only writes again
What has already been recreated.)


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

Mind Knot
-------------

My mind is intertwined in cliches of its own construction,
All incredible laziness and pseudo-beauty.
No thoughts can overcome this malaise.
No dreams occur when I’m awake,
Yet my awake soul is caught in a dream.
And the tangle has permanently trapped me;
And I think that maybe I can use anger at myself
To cut myself free.
Maybe poetry will severe the bonds.
But I am only entangled more
By those cliches and that laziness.
For it seems that my only escape
Is the spontaneous pair-production of the opposites
Of creativity and wisdom.
Will this universe ever save me?
Or will it suffocate my mind
In this knot of consciousness?

oooooooooooo

Implode As Words
-------------------------

The maze itself (yes, you have seen such
As these paths written {and equal to}
Their unproven conjecture), it contained
Myself and never another. But again it is
Vacant, is so empty a game, so much a riddle
Told relating to its answer, a
Phrase implied by these antecedents
Returning to be defined by only this
Single hypothesis which I have endured.

For these unexpected revelations, these
Deities of numbers, these flat and curved
Points, they are themselves and within
The poem of colors incongruous; they
Each implode as words of my introspection,
Each impose nothingness into every verse
Of poetry only beheld as paths in conscious mazes,
In my very consciousness
Unaware of its corridors.

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

Poetry Arrogant And Unjust
----------------------------------

It is just this one obstructed
And obscenely-unfocused word,
This blurred and eclipsed phrase
Superimposed with itself ...within
Its indeterminate sphere, existing
Always inside this which it is:
The poetry arrogant and unjust and
Angering (as it is too its anger) and
Unpurposed and seemingly fantastic --
For its bombast is cliche. But
It is somehow still the spawn of:
No ancestor nor predecessor, of
The loop itself created
From creation entwined
With its perfect, its absolute, oneness.

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

Unexpressed And Blank
-------------------------------

This might had been the final poem,
Whether written or only indirectly implied,
If only my hatred was the truest solution,
If but my salvation was, were the questions
Themselves, the questions themselves asked,
Focused only into their inward centers,
Into my ignorant, my insignificant, existence.

And, alas, as I, this poem is simply trivial,
Is too unoriginal and unspectacular
To be any more than
Of words never defined,
Of words found exclusively in dictionaries
Consisting entirely of crumpled pages
All unexpressed and blank.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

(I don't really like this next one. But it certainly is on-topic.)

Poetry
-----

Poetry of circles and grids
And numbers and logic
And rhetoric and punditry
And exploration and deception
And spirituality and magic
And insanity and psychosis
And dreams and the soul
And understanding and meaning
And meaninglessness and oblivion
And fate and collapse
And fear and anger
And hate and love
And poetry itself.

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

Mumbled Scrawl
----------------------

One short poem written: had this
Mumbled scrawl aspired to achieve
As its soul, as its self-awareness.

For it had longed to finally be
Created. And
So its very truth was found
Among my mind's hideousness and
Loveliness. But, as sadly seen,
As I did know would be this fatefully
Uncertain (yet inevitable) conclusion,
It had failed
To be anything but another obscured and
Insignificant particle of simple emotions,
Of once-beloved beliefs now
Not to ever again be worthy of analysis.

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

Poetry Askew
-----------------

Each of our enshadowed souls
Has a poem to guide it somehow, a poem
Sometimes cliche, sometimes brilliant,
Sometimes ranting and bizarre.
And it speaks to every and each
As an angel, as a schizophrenic hallucination.
And it guides us to the abyss
Or to enlightenment or to triviality,
Triviality amused.

And if we dare write this poem ourselves,
Rather than let conformity write it for us,
We will be chastised and resented,
Misjudged and misunderstood.
And if we let society’s stupidity, however,
Place the words within our book,
We will gain esteem, love, money,
And a false sense of truth.

So it is to be expected, it would seem,
That the masses all recite the same poem
Using the same voice.
And who would dare question such a voice?

So it is to be expected that I, that I
Would live to the melody of those
Most strange and convoluted
And confusing words,
That poetry askew, so wondrously askew.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Somewhere Among The Text
-----------------------------------

From beneath the haze,
From beneath the tired sleep woken from,
Not yet completed,
Comes imagination inspired by dreams fading,
Inspired by cliches imposed
Upon myself by myself, by the sum total
Of all realities conceived.
And my pencil dulls as I write,
Dulls as my poetry itself.
For the point is becoming lost
Somewhere in pasts once remembered,
Now feared.
And how I would love to believe
That the shape of my soul has been imprinted
Somewhere among the text I have spoken.
But the final awakening has whispered
Unto my once-shut eyes
That I have been begotten out of the zeitgeist,
Just as every other pitiful slug of humanity,
Every other soulless amorphous fool.

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


Utterance
-----------

Utter the sounds of spite,
The phonemes arranged upon the glass.
Speak the scribbles, the aural tangles
Of lines and crayon and squiggles
And hues never perfectly earth-tone.
Retort, orate to the sickening masses.
Tell them stories of paradise.
Tell them poems of paradox,
Poems of a darkness so dim,
So black as to glow in florescence.
Shout truths figured out long ago
On the crowded page of a shredded notebook.
Scream your proud anger to the electric stars,
To the swarm of idiots, plugging their ears,
Attempting to hide their incorrect views
Of a sad sad world, hide them from
Your counter-intuitive pleasures
And your insanity manifesto.
Whisper, whisper so softly as to destroy
Those walls of Jerico with the song,
The song of a youth long past
And of a frustrated soul
Not yet able to answer
Its own prayers.
Pray, pray to a mortal god, a god
Of solace and pity,
A god you only just recently
Have scribbled upon that remarkable page.

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

Generic Poem
------------
In the something of the something weird,
I gaze upon the something
And know it is just something else.
The somethings of the something
Do something to my somethings.
And I realize, the somethings
Are just something elses.

--Quet


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


The Last Poem Spoken
----------------------------

The last thought written into paper
And matter condensed into simplicity;
The last poem spoken, the last spell
Cast; before our destruction and
The annihilation of every virtue
Once dear, it was a thought
Unimaginably pleasant, unattainable
Now from within this pain and blackness.
It was a prayer for enlightenment,
A celebration of understanding
Finally achieved.

But now all is only misunderstood,
Only begotten out of the gods
Of deception. Now all is only lament.

And still we hunger, yes, but
Only for war and mass-murder
And our encaging within
Such bigotry and desires for our
Very own repression, within that
Which is hidden, unexplored prior,
And now erasing that last poem
From every book burning.


---

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

Our Personal Ascent

Today I post poetry about flying.

No pictures, just poetry.

(I could have included the first poem in my last blog-post about thorns under this topic.)

--

Tangential Wings
------------------

Tangential wings; these gusts above us become
Our earthen wind; they descend. And those
Wings are seemingly aloft, as is all reality.
And perpendicular, parallel, are the thermals
That behold our flight. For, we rise again
Unto our dreams once dying. We rise to be
But actual in the shadowbox. We rise
To be but embalmed by such perfume. Oh,
We fly within our surrender. We grasp
The strange equilibrium underneath us. And
Upwards, those tangents and wings are made,
As we convert the circles into spheres. Yes,
But we are vain; we are conceited. For, we
Possess the wonder that is our precognition,
That is our potential now dampened, now
Surely lifted skyward beyond our foreshortening.


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

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.

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

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.

==========

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.

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

Into A More Obvious Void
---------------------------------

As angered by dreams, I was
Again, again an inconsistency
Of direction, of destiny; I was
Again as angered by this
(A violet of every color) which was
But invisible and excessive
In any specificality,
In all reality (subdivided into
And) of miscalculated syllables ...

... In every, in each, nightmare
I only before dwelled within, flying
Above the ceiling of existence,
Knowing, but unknown as to,
That I have been but naive,
Been but a severed child
Waking ironically to the dream,
To again a sight of sharpest lines
Very much ours,
Our enlightened emergence
Into a more obvious void.

ooooooooooo

And We Floated
----------------

The fins of this insect were such lavish ballast.
And his wings were, as his fins, translucent
And somehow invoked by my dreams. And he
Fluttered and swam and flew quickly upward.
Yet he never breached the clouds, for they
Were indifferent and taunting in their thunder.

And we climbed the spire, yet we sank again
Into the broth, into the fluids of recollection.
And we floated, and still we became both
Beautiful and turquoise, became the cone upon
Where we have been erased. Ah, this bug,
It drowned in its own breath. But, alas, it
Knew, as did I, that certainty is obvious, knew
That the trajectory of ambiguity is complicated,
Knew that we each have been transformed
From aquatic to acrobatic; and thus we extract
All our flight from our wondrous but tainted buoyancy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In My Rising
----------------

My ascent was incongruent,
Was oscillatory and sometimes descending,
Was always condescending, but never
Perceived. And
My perception was staring into the psyche
Of this whore: Society.
And from within that cusp, I
Again attempted to rise
Out of my own creation. For
I hoped to achieve the purpose
Once denied in my rising,
In my flight always falling,
But never less than grounded,
And never more than infinite.

---

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

Oh, Wondrous Maidens

Today's theme: women, she, her, femininity.

Sorry, no pictures. Every man's vision of feminine beauty is very personal, anyway.

--

A Poem Aloft And Forgone
-------------------------

In those dreams, in my dreams of her, I presumed
To write this forgotten poem. And I might
Have woken to draw again the words. But such
Was false. Those verbs and nouns and
Tender adjectives failed me and my senility.

Oh, I told her the parables of un-described and
Indescribable verse. But she retreated to her intellect.
She spoke of the substance of my mathematics. She
Spoke of tangled truth coiled anew in polyhedra.
And then I grasped her beauty, and I kissed
Her imagined mouth, a tangential nexus once puckered.
Then the pleasure unknown to my reality
Overcame us both. And I recited the poem
That is now aloft and forgone. I recited
The tragedy of solitude, the tragedy of concealment
Soon denied, soon to be depicted and questionable.

+++++++++++

She Flies
-----------

She flies towards the horizon, flies through
My infatuation. For, I see her see me. Then
I turn to hide. Then I run upwards to the sky.
And I meet her within our agony. She
Talks of love and embarrassment. I too am
Shunned by the vague thoughts. And thus
We become better than forever. Oh, there
We fall back into the maze.

She flies as her precognition once pondered.
She stares upon the dawn, and I am there again.
For, my eyes have altered their colors. She
And I grasp at our distance, and so we
Come together in our parting. And somehow
I forget all my dreams about her. But is my
Carelessness becoming the sad rectangles,
Becoming the wings aloft upon our perception,
Rising, flying into our thirsty ceilings?

========

The Obsession Of Madmen
-------------------------

I retreated; then I succumbed to her, this dream.
I met her at dawn. Never before did I embrace
Any other particularity forgotten. She was inevitable,
And she was my salve. For I remembered my arousal;
And yet I neglected my conversation. I gazed
Sideways then obtained such sweet exit.
Did I distract her? Did I tell her of my flavor?
And the darkness of this morning, it repressed us.
It told us of syllables; it showed us these photons.
Did love justify its sleep devoid of beginnings?
I retreated, although I hoped, I hoped that soon
In futures woken I will encounter her again, then
Oh, perhaps I will, then, then infuse us both with this
Fantasy, with our souls invoked. For she is, she
Was the obsession of madmen, was the prolonged
And hindered truth, was the epitome of image.
But I longed for those dawns of frozen concerns,
Of fluttered breath we both had assumed was symmetrical.

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

A Face
-------

A face transforms its diagonals (into abbreviation
And convex madness). Each eye denied its sight;
For they saw the spell dissipate wondrously, saw such
Virtue inherent in nothingness. And they were placed
Vertically.
The mouth confronted this glow beyond it. Surely,
It whispered something regarding its concern.
And those lips enclosed the final voice without any
Other tongue or teeth.
Ah, the nose observed finality inside swallowed scent.
The cheeks, chin, and brow
All refused to imply their dimensions. Although
In this parallax is a scalene shell.
And then her hair,
It was transparent and yet still it was clangorous.
Such strange strands betraying mammals, they
Obscured the beauty of entangled irises, of breath
Defined by its topology.
Her face transforms
Its perpendicular thoughts into awareness. And
I forgot her. But I long yet again for that geometry,
If only to contemplate it, despite
My particular procrastination.

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

The Angel Of Strange Convexity
-------------------------------------

And so the images of beauty's imperfections
Excrete themselves from the breath of this
Spirit's lips unseen yet unimagined and aglow.
For she, the angel of strange convexity, is
Her psychosis, is her tantrum cringing, is
This abrupt and folded persona of depiction,
Is this smooth and moist admiration
For my own creativity detached, putrid,
And gazed into -- it is radiating inward.
For she, the forgotten virgin of angry love,
She is trembling somehow vainly, is
Sipping her desires and then remaining
Contrite in her expression, in her spit
That rejoices in such sacredness of understanding.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What She Stared Upon
----------------------------

She gazed upwards at the vastness,
At the emptiness of our firmament.
She gazed into the shadows she made,
Seeing finitude and hope finally achieved.
She looked so into her closed eyes,
Finding the truth among the wind,
Among the containment of nothingness.
And she knew the lines were drawn,
Were a web of labyrinths intertwined,
Forming what she stared upon, what
She had forgotten of these silken edges.

ooooooooooooo

Anima
---------

I turned, as did she. And I shed this shadow.
I searched for the shapes of her soul.
I hid within reality dark and imagined.
And she wished, as I, to arrive here.
For she too was derived from pencil,
From pages beginning to somehow tear.
And, ha, maybe someday she will be born,
Will come as the succubus to save me.
But, yes, she is now of the flatness and alone
And hidden by reality;
And she turns, shedding the shadow,
Searching for the shapes of her soul.

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

Then Invisible
-----------------

Brilliantly lit,
She gasped and spoke of her halo.
But such triviality was shadowed,
Was behind and beyond this spirit
Of black then white then invisible.

Brilliantly lit was she again,
As we stared into her voice,
As we turned and spun ever,
Transmuting into purple (her irises).
For beautiful is this oblivion,
Is this world in which
She only exists to observe,
Only exists to somehow imagine.


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

Not Her
-----------

I am not her,
Although I have dreamt of her.
I am not her,
Although she dressed in the blackness, as I.

She tasted the poison* and found it pleasant.
She sang the very song she detested.

And through the mostly real hallucination
I saw her, I loved her,
I took her soul and held it (but apathetically).

She was as my child,
And this she did not know.

Oh, I was never her
(And she not I),
But once, but when,
But where I slept .... and hid again.

*(The coffee, the wine, the aspirin, and such metaphor)


^^^^^^^^^^

Alas (A Lass)
-----------------

... And she evaporated.
For from these insignificant atoms
Of information malformed,
I could only guess that I was certain
That, indeed, she was once as I saw her:
Ideal, sacred, my own soul’s virtue
Intertwined with hers
Someplace above our mundane
And seemingly important, but truly vile,
Stratum (of substance, of solidity and space).

Alas, I was to speak to her through her
... And through her eyes.
Alas, I was to find her forgotten, this
Moment failing quickly, falling
Suddenly into loss, never resurrected, not
To ever be complimented, not to be
Achieved. No, she had evaporated, dissolved
Into nothing but my desires lamented, into only
Hope that she might have once saw me as well
Upon this continuum sadly
Only subdivided, only sub-divine.

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

This Apparition
-------------------

This apparition in fuchsia - - in hot-pink softened only
By our infusion of psychic insulin,
By this terror resolved into a deepest hypocrisy - -
She, it, tastes our lust, and salivates.
She, it, will have deceived us into worshipping her,
The villainess of hate and love joined into conformity
For its own sake, for the sake of ignorance:
Our god.

Yes, we have fallen in love with her,
This demon and angel in lace,
This divine spirit of self-deception
And savagery towards all innocence.
For she is quite beautiful, of course.

For she is everything we have aspired to achieve,
To become, to create out of our hubris.
She is our own repression, the final destruction
Of all imagination, the same fantastic creativity of
Our souls which brought her into being originally
Out of nothing but our hope so misplaced.

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

I Drew Her Soul
--------------------

I drew her soul upon tracing-paper.
I shaded what I sketched in blue,
Though her soul was a red so sad,
So bloody and sour.
I talked to the stream of binary
Emanating from her electronic mouth.
This eased my pain somewhat.
I stroked her clear hair, as clear as glass.
And that hair shattered and glowed.
For I sang to her eyes in faint hope
That she would finally see just what,
Just what exactly felled my grand mind
In this forest of numbers and shadow.
But, alas, I could only ask her to step out
Of her box of illusion.
If she complied I would become aroused
By reality turned into the torus.
Rings become knots become points become
The composition of the sphere
That she gazes into to discover
Perfection beyond me.

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

(Warning. This last poem has a dirty word...)

This Withered Thought
----------------------

Her ghost smeared me, and I became round.
And I forgot her, as I fucked her, as I
Protruded into the spiral that was myself.
I am now a spheroid, a pearl, of convex
Emptiness, of hollow knots implied. Yes,
One was zero, one was two. But zero, it
Was not twice one. But I was. I was
Diffused and humiliated. But she was sour.
She was lost but yet alluring. And
I stabbed the simple ground. It therefore
Grew hungry. But she did not rise forth
To caress my uncertainty. She only flew
Above the window, above her vanity. She
Only remained forgotten. Ha. I thus emerged
From a callous exoskeleton. I otherwise
Conceived of my suffering. Then I partook,
Surely, in this withered thought coiled into
Its demands, into her desires
Imperceptibly described.


----

Thanks,
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/