Thursday, December 30, 2010

Ridiculously Residual

Blog post # 146:

Glassy Levitation

Triumph Of Insignificance

Residually Voluminous


New poll.

Which of these intrigues you most?

1) A glossy brain.
2) A butterfly with 3 wings.
3) Blurry nothingness.
4) Words of phosphorous.
5) Paradoxical sewage.
6) Semicircular immortality.
7) Unsurreal radioactivity.


Two poems, written two days ago and today:

Conforming Shapes Of
Every Pairing

Formed outwardly and
radially elongated, the spreading
Images are here within their thorn,
are there amongst
A spike diagonally vertical and
sharply upright.
But relatively adjacent,
upon each symmetrical pivot
Placed alongside,
a sphere is covered too in
This expansion. Yet
these twin origins inside both
Cone and ellipsoid, they
do not imply such space,
Nor do they bend.
.... Those landscapes quite
Anagrammatical yet never
palindromic, we doubt
Their ridiculousness,
although we still draw
Their triangles and circles:
none of nothingness,
None of beauty. Oh, we
spite those conforming shapes
Of every pairing. Indeed,
we must scribe their
Thicknesses into a flatness
outstretched and
Concave, into a shallow uneasiness
surely cliche,
Surely plagiarized,
and certainly formed outwardly
From truth's absurd bifurcations.


Tangential Insignificance

Tangential insignificances
flee as flaps and bulbs
From that triangle curved and
paired with its dual
About 3/4 the circle,
about the entirety of a sphere
Both glassy and
metallically unexpressed.
But their only residual existence
is the sloping
Of an arc, downwardly and
rightward as not
Anything other than
tangential insignificance.

Such voluminous flatness
barely coils, yet it
Only oscillates but never. Such
Semicircular emptiness
does partially wrap
This accumulation of
opaqueness about the
Very translucency of
transcendence surely
Artificial, surely angered
by its own successes.

Oh, this encirclement is
quite a ridiculous
Course. But
it appears to be too round,
Although its triangularity is
dichotomous and
Pinched at the inner neck of
its apexes, apexes
Each conjoining and
themselves insignificant,
Themselves tangential
but supremely bidirectional,
But supremely tending unto
the one narrowness of
That coinciding divide.



Monday, December 27, 2010

Eternal Intermittency

Blog post # 145:

Intermittent Obviousness

An Imprecise Psychosis

Semielliptical Inertia

Dully Into Sharpness


Oh, let us prey... I mean pray..

So, I decided (on Christmas, of all days) to come up with an anagram that sounds like something you might read in one of those Christian pamphlets the Born-Again Christians leave all over town.

So, here goes. (Please, forgive me..)

Jesus Christ is Heaven's oil.
Sin? His justice shares love.

(Holy anagram, Batman!)


The two polls I have had have closed.

Both polls each received 8 votes.

Poll # 1:

If GW Bush and BH Obama got in a fight, who would win?

Both presidents each received 4 votes.
A tie.


Poll # 2:

What is the root of all evil?

Money received 2 votes. (That's 2 for the money...)

Receiving 1 vote each:
Free will, Mankind, The Mind, Conservatives, God, and Something Else.

Receiving 0 votes each:
Sex, Pleasure, Progressives, Devil, Everything, There Is No Evil.

Thanks to everyone who voted!


One poem, written a couple days ago:

This Rope

The strange strip of strings
arcs as a quarter-circle.
Then upon its downfall,
it reflects rightward
Just somewhat, ah,
then reflects leftward
To orbit the orb between it
and its previousness.
And it is momentarily
a triangle-like loop.
It is temporarily intermittent.
Yet it glistens
Of color and such blandness
beautifully coiled.
It glistens of the
fibrous truths intermingled
With its course bouncing twice.
Yes, it
Impurely is the roundness
of hollow triangles.
It is imprecisely the
strands of their own
Severing. And it is
obscured at its termini,
Yet it is obvious at
its stillness. For,
This rope is spun
from my concerns. And
It is woven from
my bending imagination.
It is woven from the
topologies of psychoses, from
The cloth of
hypothetical chemicals. Then it
Is wound unjustifiably about
such revocation,
About such wiggling of
helices strung consistently,
Strung as these wires
of weirdness' potential.



Friday, December 24, 2010

Ascertained By Imbeciles

Blog post # 144:

Radioactive Roundnesses

Opaque But Not Transparent

Unraveling Orthogonalities


No, I don't celebrate Christmas. The only reason that Christmas is even a big deal in the first place -- more so than other Christian holidays or than any non-Christian holidays -- is because many Christian kids received presents as kids. The happy associated associations linger. Emotional impact -- kaboom!

But talk of Christmas is not what we all came here for. No, we came here for ANAGRAMS!

"Christmas" is an anagram of "shirt scam", because, I imagine, lots of people get shirts as presents they then return, hopefully for cash. Also, it is an anagram of "crams shit", because, I imagine, we cram ourself with lots of food (which becomes...), and cram lots of useless stuff under the tree and into boxes.

(Figured those out in my head, I did.)


Word Puzzle:

Okay, you have a 5-letter word. Remove the last letter, then change the 4th letter (now the last letter) to the letter next in the alphabet. Append to the beginning of these 4 letters a new letter (which could be any letter). So, again, we have a 5-letter word. The second (newest) word represents something that is made up of a *specific* finite number of what the first (oldest) word represents. What are the two words?

I don't know how many correct answers there are. There is at least one correct answer, though. And it may be very easily found.

Clue: (Thing represented by second word) divided by
(Thing represented by first word) =


(Follow order of operation.)


Lastly, the poem I wrote today:
(Why, Leroy?! Why??)
(Because I'm a sadist.)

Upwardly And Downwardly

Dichotomously upwardly cuspidate,
downwardly drooping,
These items of orthogonalities known,
they protrude
At bipolar angles,
juxtaposed with their opposition,
With their counterbalance
shaped as such unraveling.

And these quasi-annuli,
these semicircles thickly thin,
They grasp that spheroid --
oh, it is not contained.
They bifurcate slightly and
hold the one bulb, the bulb
Within those psychotic polyhedra
all themselves
Afloat both
vertically and horizontally, both
Upwardly and downwardly,
becoming imperfect.
Then we falsely assume
them to be diagonal, rightly
Assume them to be
intuitively enumerated by this pairing
Of upheaval falling,
failing, and beautiful.

For, in the pathways
of derived exception,
The tangents also bend and
extend unto antipodes.
They superimpose solitude
onto singularity.
Then they are halved
via duplication, via
Multiples of lines and forms
Yet explicitly created
into two's, created into
Numbers each even,
each minimized, both
neither being of inflection or
Of any plural doppelgangers



Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Dire Happiness

Blog post # 143:

I am not really happy about any of these pictures made over the last 5 days.

This Reverberant Cliche

Emblematic Seeping

Somewhat Such Loci

Dimensions Not Probable

Portions Of Ambivalence


Okay, the anagram for today.

The dire goons
There is no god.

(Maybe someone should have a band called The Dire Goons, in honor of the anagram.)


You only THINK you are happy,

they say. But, excuse me, but by the very mental nature of happiness, aren't you really happy if you simply think you are!?!?

I Googled the phrase in question, and it seems that other people also realize the situation here. That's good. I'm not crazy (about this, anyway.)

But... craziness is usually the opposite of happiness, in the sense that if you think you are crazy, then you are not. And if you think you are not crazy, then you are.... except if you think you are crazy, and you are, or if you think you are not crazy, and you are not.

I only THINK I am confused by my own mental ramblings...
(But I really understand completely... I think.)


One poem today; written two days ago.

Disregarded Quadrature

The gaping cone is
inanimate and inert. Its apex is
Upon its underside. And
its curvature is angular. Yet
Within its mouth, a thin disk
tilts somewhat. And
Against this, just at the rim,
a pointed circle,
A flap held at its one fulcrum,
it partially ascends
And also barely touches
the loci beneath.

Oh, from disk and flap,
prongs descend diagonally. Their
rotation parallels the cone's.
However, their
Bulbousness is lengthwise
but still slender.

And from the
formulae and forms within it,
A thick thread wanders
unto the right. From it,
again, two more prongs
also both imply
Their direction
leftward and downwardly.

Oh, the cone is
adroitly abstract and is
Absolutely additive. But
it remains stagnant
Inside its exterior.
And its hollowness is hidden,
Aside from that
roundness above, except regarding
Such disregarded quadrature
simply and substantially



Thursday, December 16, 2010

A Rad Pox... Paradox

Blog post # 142:

Variations Otherwise

Downfall Of Loxodromes


Super-duper anagram!

"Oh, science topples galaxies."
"Alas, logic pops existence, eh."

Is this anagram a sign that the universe as we know it is just an illusion? Will science or logic be able to "topple" our perceptions of reality?

I know this anagram is somewhat lame because of the appearance of the words "oh,", "eh", and even "alas" in it. But still, I find it interesting that our language would seem to align so as to allow this pair of related phrases to happen to be anagrams of each other.


Another small anagram.

"A rad pox"

("Rad" means cool {for those of you unfamiliar with 80's slang}, as in "RADical, man! Hey, dude, that's rad!")


I am concerned that what I perceive to be reality is only an illusion.

Okay, I WANT all things to only be an illusion when it comes to mass-suffering, such as that suffering in, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan or Haiti or elsewhere. Wouldn't it be nice if the Neo-Nazi revisionists were correct, and the Holocaust didn't really happen? (And, oh yeah, the Neo-Nazis don't exist either!)

But... I want things to be real when it comes to small personal things in my life -- such as my cat, and my art, my friends and family. (I really don't want the truth of reality to be that I am still a virgin because I was only dreaming when I thought I got some.)

But how selfish is that? Am I willing, if it was somehow up to me if things are real or not (which I don't think it is, anyway), to make all things real just for my cat's sake and my art's sake, if making things real would mean the mass-suffering of billions of people?


No poem today! Yay!



Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Reacquainted With Eons

Blog post # 141:

I made both of these pictures today.
(I don't really like to make two pictures in one day. But I did on this date.)

Swallowed And Swallowing

Diagonally Opaque

(One really colorful. One not so colorful. Yes, indeed.)


All of the following in today's post, except the two poems at the end, was written years ago.


If women are attracted to men in power, then why aren't they attracted to nonconformity in men? For, there is almost nothing else that makes someone as powerless as much as conformity does, almost nothing else that makes one as powerless as not having control over one's own soul.


Unoriginal pick-up line:
"Hey, baby. I know they don't allow you into government buildings...
Because you are smokin'.."


When humanity's scientists finally create that black hole that swallows us all, even this will not be the worst thing humanity has done to itself.


Wis-Dumb, Affect-Shun-Ate, Stray-t.


A poser is a ... hipster-crite..


I am such a nonconformist that I want an irregular heartbeat. Why would I want a REGULAR heartbeat?
No, I want a razzmatazz tom-tom-beatin' heartbeat..


The cochlea of the inner ear: With the possibly only other example being the eye (with its colorful concentric circles), there is no other bodily organ that is so beautiful from a mathematical point of view. Sure, breasts and other parts of the female anatomy are beautiful, but only in a subjective sense, not so much mathematically as is the cochlea. The cochleae, with their tubes twisted into curving spirals, are some of the very few pieces of evidence that there indeed might be a god-creator. For, it seems that the cochlea was designed by a conscious intellect. With visible body-features, sexual-selection can explain their beauty. But the cochlea is hidden, an obscure form of beauty.


This reality I obsess over seems to have denied its own existence.
It itself knows not its own secrets.


To believe that there is any good at all in this world
is the height of the absurdity of optimism.


Singles ad: "Gen-X XY looking for Gen-Y XX".


The purpose of life = death?

They say all tends towards disorder -- entropy.
I would say that death itself is one of the greatest examples of tending towards disorder. For, death is the big fade into whitenoise.


The worst thing, aside from the deaths of animals or people, is the destruction of art. For, the willful destruction of art should be considered a crime against (a) humanity.


If one uses idiotic arguments to try to prove a point, then they are using... "flaw-gic"..


Women hate me because I am ugly.
God hates me because I don't believe in Him.
Americans hate me because I am a liberal.
Foreigners hate me because I am American.
I hate myself because everyone hates me.


Pick-up line: "Oo baby. Someone call the cops, 'cause you're legged and dangerous."


Why do they call it an answering-machine, when it basically ASKS you what you want?...


Okay, the poems I wrote yesterday and today:

A Landscape Both Sharp
And Thorned

Unwritten are the juts
of a landscape both
Sharp and thorned.
Yet this matter of
Such plexiform spaces,
it is as the very shards
That we once shattered
as they shattered us.
And the spikes and spires
grasp at these
Atoms within that
glassy air, ha. For,
The mountainous weirdness
before me is
Made from only
amorphous upheaval. It
Is shaped then into
the conjured games
Of astrophysics and
meteorology destructively
Placed in this
diagonal world. Yes, those
Tactile stones exist
in reality's cleaving.
But dreams of
erosive corrosion deny
Such rust. Oh,
into the autocracy of angry
Madness expressed lyrically,
all the earth
Is shredded by its
own pathos. And it
Bleeds of silt and resentment,
despite its
Salve. Yes, its eternities are
surely sharp
And thorned, are
agonizingly reverberant
And are
hypothetically entropic,
Malformed yet scalene
yet scathing yet sick.



Awash in my forgetfulness,
such preponderances
Of wetness...
That ellipsoid weirdly scalene,
It is awash in this fluid
(a fulfilling salve),
In this dampness above it,
below it, upon which
It is swallowed and
swallowing. Oh, it is
Encased by that water
flowing diagonally,
Robustly, forth and
rightward and downwardly.

And underneath this
glassy drop, the liquids
Puddle and pool.
Yet they too rise within
Our distance, then fall
to the uneasy exterior
Of a crystalline globule
itself not of rain. Oh,
awash is the flood, is that
Blob of solidity
otherwise transparent,
Otherwise beautiful
in its opaqueness. But
The thing is not of amber,
nor is it
Of its ironic drink. Ah,
it is only awash
In this convection
of gasses somewhat
And it is enclosed then partially
Exposed, partially expressed,
as the syrup
Unjustly false,
unjustly cowardly, and
Deservedly soaked by breath,
by broth
Refracted but not to be
hidden amongst these
Immaterial symmetries



Sunday, December 12, 2010

Circular Roots

Blog post # 140:

Unturning Interval

Of Gouging Flatness


It seems appropriate that "poem" is an anagram of "mope".


Plexidoxa = the body of all argument and debate intentionally or unintentionally confusing with its use of overly complicated or extraneous logic or rhetoric.

As in, "Sarah Palin never engages in plexidoxa, although she is a confusing speaker nonetheless."

This word is a synonym of an already existing word, I am certain. But I can't right now remember what that word is. In any case, synonyms aren't against the law. And also, my word has less negative connotation than I think the older word has. A political conservative would likely never refer to the reports of climate-scientists as being plexidoxa, for instance. Although a progressive might.


New poll! No. New polls!

Poll # 1:

What is the root of all evil, in your opinion?

Some say it's money. Maybe it is simply religion, some would say. Or maybe it is sex -- after all, if there was no sex, then there would be no people to be evil. Maybe it is free will, then. But is it is free will, then controlling everyone's mind to end evil would itself be evil. Or maybe it is the need for pleasure, since committing evil acts can be pleasurable for the evil-doers (but not always). What do you think is the root of all evil?


Free will
The Mind
Something Else
There Is No Evil


Poll 2:

If former US president GW Bush and current American president BH Obama got in a fight, who would win?

Both Bush and Obama are in relatively good physical shape for their ages. I think that either is capable of fighting dirty, but I suspect that Obama would completely give in the second Bush pokes him in the eyes. Then, after Obama cries "uncle", Bush would knee Obama in the groin hard.

What do you say?

GW Bush
BH Obama


Finally, finally.
Poem, written today.

Bubbles Dripping

Drooping droplets, as petals
of alternating alternation,
They drip, becoming
one soapbubble, as reoccurring
Emptiness within both liquid
and again in air.
They taste of bitter sap.
And they fill with
Dimensions and beauty
and void. Then they
Rest upon their longitudes and
hang from
That weird but finite and
barren staff. Oh, they
Must be destined to explode
and vanish into
Simply droplets of
a poisonous mist. They must
Be tempted to flee from
their existence and truth,
Then hide within
their nothingness inside them,
Inside their temporary
and interrupted
Permanency. Oh,
of droplets and bubbles, such
Roundness is dampened
by chaos' salve. But
In this sipped drink
onto which we spit, there
Is but the foam and froth
of contingency.
Yes, there are there but
bubbles dripping into
The spiteful drunkenness
of our placidness,
Into the pleasant water
of our own bursting.



Friday, December 10, 2010


Blog post # 139:

Our Limbic Extremity

The Intellect Unattached

Weird Plagiarism


Poll results:
Question: What?

5 votes total received.

The answers:
"What?", and "This answer. Pick me!" each received 2 votes.
"You're lying!" Received 1 vote.
"I told you so", "Vibrant spittle", "Transcend the spiral", "I think so", "Wink-wink", "How?", and "None of the above" each received 0 votes.


The news is so often so depressing, as we all know.
From now on, I am calling the "Press"
the "Depress".



Take the 12 playing-cards, ace,2,3,4,...,10,jack,queen. It is the beginning of the day. Let's say you have to take 12 pills over the next few days.

You shuffle the "deck" and draw a card, which you then don't return to the deck. You then take your first pill on the hour noted by the card you drew. If it is a number, you take the pill at that hour. If it is an ace, you take your first pill at 1. If it is a jack, you take your first pill at 11. And if it is a queen, you take your first pill exactly 12 hours from now.

Okay, every time you draw a card, you wait that many hours (with ace=1, jack=11, queen=12, of course) from when you last took your pill to take your next pill. You then don't return the card to the deck.

After all 12 pills are taken, you notice a strange thing. The numerical values 1 through 12 for the clock's HOURS the pills were taken each occur exactly once (over the course of several days). Question: Is there a particular order of the cards that allows each hour (on possibly different days) to occur exactly once?
PS: I'm using a 12-hour clock.

Here's is an incorrect partial solution as an example: First, draw a 3. 3 o'clock. Then draw a 5. 3+5 = 8 o'clock. Then draw a 6. 8 + 6 = 2 o'clock. (Remember, the hours go to 12, then start over again at 1.) Then draw a 7. 2 + 7 = 9 o'clock. Then draw an 11. 9+11 = 8 o'clock. But you already took a pill at 8 o'clock, so this solution is wrong.

Clue: If there is a solution, the first card must be a 12. This is easy to see, since if any other card was the 12 (queen), then we would take our pill the next time at the same time, with PM instead of AM or vice versa. And so, the last time we took our pill (just before we drew the 12) would occur twice -- forbidden.

Good luck! I have not solved this myself. But...
Someone on a math/puzzles newsgroup calculated via computer (I hope they used a computer -- otherwise, I'm scared) that there are 3856 solutions to my puzzle. That seems like a lot. But there are 39916800 possible permutations of the 12 cards, where it is given that the first card is a 12 (queen). (So, we are really asking about the number of permutations of the 11 remaining cards, since the queen must be first.) That means that 1 in about every 10350 permutations -- permutations with it given that 12 is the first card -- is a solution. That makes it highly unlikely you will find a solution by chance.


If that wasn't mentally-straining enough, here's the poem I wrote today! (Arrgg, you Leroy!)

Into Perpendicular Decisiveness

These games are simplified
into inaccurate ambiguity.
They are scribbled oddly
into grids of intellect,
Into perpendicular decisiveness
certain of its lines,
But not of its intersections.
Oh, these gambits
Are simply guessed
but not obvious, despite
The very multiplicity of
possibilities drawn.

For, columns become rows;
yet horizontality is
Never diagonal within
this paper page. Yes,
Obscured are our minds from
our minds. Such
Is desired. However, it is problematic.
Such squares
Become x's, and only once
do they do so twice.

Oh, the games are
irrational and random.
They complicatedly are considered
by geniuses and
Are proposed as weirdnesses
uttered then alternated.
Ah, alternately we
win and lose this
One play upon a
notebook's scrawl. And
We are knowing regarding
the counterintuition
That is but countered.
For, we play just
Rectangular games
turned orthogonally. We
Are players of such
juxtaposition positioned
With subdivided directions
Each circumvented
by their erroneousness.


PS: I plan to put up a new poll in a few days.


Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Full Of Fulcra

Blog Post # 138:

Two "Fulcrum" pictures today:

Reciprocals Of The Fulcrum

Fulcrum Of Nothingness


It should be noted that "anagram" is an anagram of "a rag-man" and of "nag a ram".

Is this a sign of the coming apocalypse?



Yes, I'm straight.
Still, I don't want to date.
I just want to wait to mate.
That's my fate.

I don't want to date.
Don't want to mate.
Don't even want to masturbate.
I'll just wait.

I want to be celibate.
Yes, want to be celibate.
That'd be great.
I'll just wait 'til it's too late.

What I hate
is to date.
Don't even like to mate.
I want to be celibate.

I want to be celibate.


No poem today!


Sunday, December 5, 2010

Dissonant Science

Blog post # 137:

Dissonances Of Sums

Tranquil Contortion


Anagram time!

All is a geometric logarithm science.
It is an electric slice hologram game.


Either "God" doesn't really care if we "say His name in vain", or God isn't really that smart at all, or God doesn't even exist. Proof: Nobody would ever bother to say God's name in vain if God simply left that commandment of out the Big 10. The only reason anybody ever says God's name in vain in the first place is that God supposedly told us that doing so is forbidden. So, what God REALLY doesn't want us to say is left out of the 10 Commandments, if God is smart. So, assuming that God is real and smart, what do you think God REALLY doesn't want us to say in vain?


Do you ever wonder why so many losers buy lottery tickets? Why is it that the super-poor and the mentally challenged are more likely to play the lottery than the rest of us? You would think that these people would have learned that luck is not on their side!

I don't play the lottery, though, even though I myself am poor and stupid.
I am afraid of losing, of course.
But I am also afraid of winning the lottery. Fuck that stress. I guess I am SO lazy and stress-avoiding that I don't even want to deal with winning the lottery!


Okay, one poem. Written today.

Spheres Squeezed And Then Cut

A single semi-spheroid ascends,
but yet it is still.
Its flatness protrudes upwardly
to be ascertained.
And its roundness
convexly droops, yes, towards
The sharpness of solitude. Upon.
One quarter-spheroid,
Its weird corner is positioned
within unintended
Balance. Ah, resting upon
that fulcrum, the
Curvature of such is
before us, although it
Is obscured by its
translucency. Oh, upon
The perpendicular radius
of that half-ellipsoid, a
Wedge above connects
onto just this surface.
And its angle is oblique
but somewhat circular.

Yes, the stagnant
irregularity that is
The hallucination, it
explodes from unconsidered
Exteriors of partitioned orbs.
Yet, as fins
And loops,
the expanse is blunt but
Severed. Yet, as spheres
squeezed and then
Cut into incremental segmentation,
this ambiguity
Regards that vision as
simply inarticulate.
Yes, of semi-spheroid
and fourth-spheroid,
Only amnesia is remembered.
Only these reciprocals
Are recreated, then creased,
then shattered,
Then originated.



Friday, December 3, 2010

A Loser And His Obscenity

Blog post # 136:

Nonadjacent Finitude

A Particular Variable




Appropriate, huh?


Since we are putting people down here (in the above case, myself), then I will post my new put-down phrase:

[Warning, obscene! Warning, obscene!]


As in, "You are a shit-whore". (To be used against a woman or a man.)

A shit-whore is someone who fucks just for some shit to eat. Like "crack-whore", but with shit instead of crack.


Okay, if that didn't offend you, this will...
Two poems!

Loops Of Elongation
And Postulation

Loops do not arouse their
indentations again. But they
Do become hermaphroditic
and yet astigmatic;
They do impose cusps
upwardly horizontal and
Vertically elliptical, surely.
The loops do indeed
Truncate at their bisection.
And as such
Flaps floating, they coil and
descend so as to
Loop and be severed
by vain knives. Ha,
These tangled crests become
their ooze. However,
They are ambidextrous and
may be shaped into shards
Of robust congruence.
The loops, they are
Halved but never
segmented; for, they are
Contiguous within each,
yet are differing
Within their non-adjacency.
Oh, they string
Strands somewhat about
their forefronts.
But these loops of
elongation and postulation are
Finite, yes, yet inert. Oh,
they run from
Front to back, center to left
towards center.
And they bend as
conjecture around such
An axis, around such an apex,
All intersection rising viciously,
All intermediacy overwhelming.



Unobscured via the
line's endpoints, another
Flat edge connects to a
severed dot. Then
Two dots are drawn again
upon their truth,
Upon the unobscured page
itself never hidden,
Never placed behind reality
or its dissonances.

Oh, unobscured are those
straightnesses forming
A serpentine progression
mostly angular. And
The wiggled sums of
lengthwise mathematics
Are vainly counted,
but yet so continue.

Oh, we do not number
the infinitesimals
In this game,
a game particularly careless. But
The points are still
just integers. And the
Lines are still only geometric.
However, the
Surface of this paper is unreal.
It is quite
A complicated composition
simplistically devised.
Yes, this game is unobscured
beneath our
Mentality and its variables,
is unobscured
Above such a
detachment of points
And dimensions
extraordinarily inflected,
Extraordinarily strategic
and thusly singular.



Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Theoretically Assumed

Blog post # 135:

Putrid Torque

Theoretically Counterintuitive


Scientists say that it may very well be likely (It is likely that it is likely) that multiple universes exist.
So, the grouping of these universes is our...


It is appropriate that they call it "underground music",
because the mainstream record companies and radio stations are always trying to BURY IT!


Two poems, written yesterday and today:

Placated By All Inner Ejecta

Formed from a stained spiral,
from a tube wound
Into quite a careful coil,
this is a cylinder
Turning and becoming
the very exhaust that fluidly
Spins and arcs and swirls
yet lengthwise. It
Becomes the fumes destined
to protrude as
Smoke and steam and
truth's vacant atrocities.
Yet the disease is
such waste; it is such a
Weird configuration of
strands formed from
The stained spiral
itself coursing roundly.

And the vapors pollute
our left sides. But
They continue unto
the surfaces of distances,
Unto the vanishing of
this putrid vision, ha.

Ah, from that stain, yes,
reality is only
Placated by all
inner ejecta. And the smoke
Does seethe
in its swallowing. Yes,
It rotates but finally
is imperfect. It
Betrays these particles
of ash and sap.
It betrays the spiral,
despite its angularity.
And it sickens our
permutations with breath,
With a poisonous beauty
revolving, a beauty
Detected as purposeless
but combustive,
A beauty detrimental
and speaking of this, of
This torque wrapped
doubtfully, of this
Clockwise momentum
so artificial yet nauseating.


Reality Bends

Reality bends twice and
twists once; for, it is a
Cylinder, is a triangle,
a cone laid asymmetrically.
Reality bends as its
transition into flames.
And it bleeds of such
overwhelming finality,
Bleeds of bulbous triangles
definitely angular
And partially convex. Oh,
of a psychotic
Truth, the dream is
incorrect, yes. But
Yet its autocracy
becomes counterintuitive.
Yes, from the swerving forms
of our waking,
The cosmos halves us
into thirds, then it
Multiplies us by pi,
by numbers not retained,
Never drooping. Ah,
reality bends so as
To aperiodically think
of translucence. But its
Assumption is of its
astigmatism. And its
Implication is of
all creases and folds
Made from those knots,
made from those
Loops bents twice and
twisted once and
Angrily wound then fulfilled,
then configured,
Then contemplated
as to our apathy, as to
Existence and its
absurdly labyrinthine theories.



Monday, November 29, 2010

Of The Actuality Of All Inconsistency

Blog post # 134:

Immaterially Traversed

Clangorous Inadequacy

Of Only Nothingness And Screams


The true shape of truth, what is it? Is it a subdivided circle, or is it a hexagon made of coincidences?

So much would surprise us if we knew the truth of everything. Reality is not as we suspect, not at all.

They lied and still lie to us, trying to deceive us. Nobody is to be trusted, not even yourself. I don't trust myself. But that is not enough.

No, reality will never be revealed, for it is much too strange. Our ignorance is our sleep in which we are dreaming of being psychotic. And our psychosis is our reality. It is our only purpose.

Yes, to be insane, that is why we are alive. That is why we are still to be ignorant of truth, of the actuality of all inconsistency.


Okay, that wasn't really a poem. But these are! (Darnit.)

(Written yesterday.)

Because Of This Conceited Sum

Numbers progress upwardly
yet meaninglessly as
Such arpeggios and
spectra incrementally sustained.
And we count the
enumerations of those integers,
Of those numbers of numbers
not complaining
Of our calculations.
But we attempt to
Cease our reoccurrences
upon particular sets
Of groupings. Yet
we must still zigzag
And oscillate and continue
unto the endpoints
Of infinity, of
coincidental shapelessness,

For, these numbers are
of an essential game, a
Game quite inconsistent
and despised. But because
Of this conceited sum,
they meander unto
Their unimportance,
unto their severing within
The segmentation of
partitions otherwise
Tallied, also failed
and impractical, surely
Placed at just
one extreme of
All linear pathways bounded,
pathways paradoxically
Not ever weird or monotonic.


(Written today.)

Apparently Of Saber-Blades

Apparently these
dull saber-blades, they
Might be smooth crescents,
or could have been
A progression of numbered
knives approaching us.
Or they could have become
the zigzagged spiral,
Expanding in this vantage
outwardly from
Side and other side
alternately abutting, ha.

But their sharpness is
as the metal, is
Not as their points
protruding bicuspidly
And opposed. Oh,
these razors come at me
And my ignorance.
But they pass me as
They then surpass me,
upwardly and behind me
Unto this imagined void
once made of
Only nothingness
and screams.

Yes, these
Saber-blades are not
concerned with the
Very algorithm that
configures them, no.
Yet they are a salve,
not a wound,
For such cutting anger.
And they will
Pass our flesh so as to
be just simply
Thoughts, so as to be
their undulation
And description regarded
so as but
Only semicircular and
never varying, never
Formed except from
beauty's claws, the
Same claws they
have apparently infuriated.



Thursday, November 25, 2010


Blog post # 133:

Sorry for the stupidness.

Objectified Vacuousness

Subsequent Shard

Forgotten Helix

Swallow The Loxodrome


A new poll!


(1) I told you so
(2) Vibrant spittle
(3) Transcend the spiral
(4) What?
(5) I think so
(6) You're lying!
(7) Wink-wink
(8) How?
(9) This answer. Pick me!
(10) None of the above


Nothing more, but two poems:

Procession Of Indescribable Increments

The horizontal stack
of elliptical disks,
It is arrayed as such
intermediacy, as such
Extrema placed along
this row of segmentation
Varying in its radii but
not in its thicknesses.
And it appears, this matter,
to be its slabs,
To be its mass somewhat
poisonous. And, yes,
Its toxicity is its geometry,
and its
Truncation is its
counterbalance. Yet I do not
Transcend that stack
portrayed as the procession
Of indescribable increments.
Oh, I do not
Permutate that tableau
of chaotic simplicity.
For, this lengthy line
of rounded intervals,
It is as its regard
ever vanquished. Yes,
This horizontal stack
does arc rectilinearly.
It is still conformingly consecutive.
But it is
Oddly repetitious,
and so, it is laterally
Without any angle or
tangent we should shun.


Of An Explosion Starkly Imperative

Exploding towards all
entropy and circularity,
The angular flatness curls
upon its expression.
It descends within its left,
rightward at its right.
But its backside
converges only
As perspective's
glaring cusp. Ah, its mass
Is of diminutive dimensions.
But it does flow
Into a crest, then it
abstains elsewhere. Its
Triangularity is cursive and
shaped not as
Such facades. No, it is only
completed when
This interval of
forward vastness narrows.

But beyond the broadness
and the apex, a
Bidirectional bulbousness
becomes again the
Intersecting columns
between. Oh, it explodes
As irregularity
obviously perfect. But that
Blast is quite a crescendo
of blunt hazard, of
Blunt prongs each clangorous.
Yes, from the
Simplest of points is
flung outwardly
This cloth and
cylindrical shards. It asks
Us if it can be such thunder.
However, we are
Only immobilized by the
subsequent ash, by
The smoke of an
explosion starkly imperative.



Sunday, November 21, 2010

Antipodal Dichotomies

Post # 132:

This Dullness Is Precise

This Sharpness Is Ambiguous

Inertia Therefore Intuitive

I don't like the top two pictures that much. But their names are dichotomous.


Poll results:

I asked which direction you would most like to travel from where you are currently. The poll received 6 votes. 4 of these votes were for Southwest.(Winner!) One vote was for Northeast. And one vote was for South.



Dumb joke:

How do you know if a witch is stupid?

...If she can't even spell!...

(Or if she tells a stupid joke like this one.)


People sometimes refer to the current era as the Great Recession, a play on The Great Depression. Well, I say we stick with psychological conditions for our names, at least in the name of the current era. You see, things are SO AbsURd lately! .. with everything from a basically rightwing president being called a "socialist", Nazis being referred to by pundits and religious leaders as "atheists" and "left-wing liberals", and an idiotic, incompetent, and far-right "Momma Grizzly" being made the idol of a good portion of the American public.

Things are really topsy-turvy, aren't they!?

I say we call the current era
*The Great Psychosis*.


Damn, I hate the news. Every single day, every single day, every single day. SO MUCH every single day to be absolutely depressed about,

Hey, the news screws!!


Poem: Written today:

This Dichotomously
Antipodal Finitude

Such counterbalance
transcends the hole,
The bulb. It is composed
of that tapering
Unto just a singularity
of pinching, of
Emptiness versus substance,
of mass and
Void derived from
the very thoughts
Of symmetry
quite unbalanced. Oh, in the
Concavity upon the left,
the slender gape
Penetrates that spheroid
onto its edge.
And it is the abstinence
of truth, but is
Also the absence
of deception. Oh, into
That puncture,
nothingness transits it
And our scribbled minds.
And vagueness is
Obvious within that
hollowness, within
That completion.

Ha, in the convexity
upon the right,
The knob is as a
droplet also squeezed.
It is as the opposite
of the hole. But it
Too truncates at
that cusp, at that
undetermined superposition.
Yet this shard is ludicrous.
For, in
Such counterbalance,
a point pokes both
Inwardly and externally.
Therefore, the
Shape is noncontiguous,
but is consistent
And oddly implied
by our assumptions of
Quasi-tori and semi-absurdities,
by this
Dichotomously antipodal
finitude of our
Gouging, of
our stained neutrality.



Thursday, November 18, 2010

I Am In Gray

Blog post # 131:

Angles Weirdly Predictable

Quadratic Cornea

Grotesquely Equilateral


Today's anagram:



[Politics Alert! Politics Alert!]

So, what I don't get is why most conservatives here in America are so opposed to Islam and Muslims. Lots of Muslims are conservatives too, conservative even to the point of ridiculousness, or so it seems sometimes to our American eyes.


But what is sad is that many American conservatives, as well as some liberals, use the perceived offensiveness of Islamic beliefs to try to justify the rounding up of sometimes innocent people, mostly men and boys, to be tortured and held incommunicado without trial indefinitely.
Never mind how "idiotic" or "crazy" Islam is. That is not the point. The point is, it is wrong and EVIL to treat ANYBODY that way, let alone innocent people*, whatever those people's beliefs!
Hey, I'm also against torturing conservative Christians!

*(I read that even the Bush administration secretly assumed that 90% of Guantanamo detainees were innocent, despite all their talk about the detainees being "the worst of the worst".)


[Warning! Politics! Warning! Politics!]
[And other talk that may offend many readers.]

Okay, let's say your kid -- an 8-year-old girl, say -- was sexually molested when she was younger by Satan-worshippers, or something like that. And let's say that grandma is on her death-bed way across the country, and will die probably within the next 2 days. Grandma's final wish? To see her grand-daughter one last time. Okay, so you go to the airport, and they flag your daughter for the new enhanced security-check. Now, she either has to be seen naked by the full-body scanner, something which terrifies her (due to her past). Or, worse, she has to be felt-up by a TSA security guard (a woman, yes, but a scary, probably lesbo, woman). Okay, so you say, this is the perfect reason why we should profile at the airport. Bombers aren't going to look like an 8-year-old (presumably white) girl. Okay, so let's say that the girl's family is Arab. And to make matters worse, her mother is wearing a hijab. And what if some bomber DOES someday hide explosives in a toddler's diaper. Maybe even in a white toddler's diaper. Then what? Do we now have to have enhanced pat-downs of little kids? Wouldn't that make the TSA officials who engage in these pat-downs into child-molesters? I know, I know. It's a post-9-11 world. We all have to make sacrifices. (Well, only the middle and lower classes really have to make sacrifices; but that is another rant for another day.) So maybe kids -- all kids, even white kids, and at least Arab and, yes, black kids (remember, some terrorists are black) -- should be banned from flying all together (Grandma be damned), or otherwise the TSA is going to have to molest them. (Sorry for my anger, but I lowered my dose of meds this morning, and I am pissed at everything.)


[Poetry alert! Poetry Alert!]

Only one poem, though.

Written today:

Of Strands Formed

Of strands made from
threads made from filaments
Of imagination spun with truth,
oh, these substances
Are grotesquely equilateral
and are finely
Crumpled yet. But they
complete the composition
Of faint obviousness, of
failed obliviousness thus
Transcendental although
never immediate. Oh, of
Strands formed from virtue,
from wispy subsets
Of such conceit, these
atoms condense into
Time; and time fulfills
the very darkness we
Consider, despite
our nonexistence. Oh, into
Those winding wires
electrified by ash and
Energy of
consciousness diverging,
the static
Courses and becomes
all foolishness. Yes,
We untie and tie
those idiotic knots in
Strands of our expression.
And then
We are bound within
this bundling, within
This tangle
doubtfully random, this tangle
Unexpectedly absurd amongst
the clamor, amongst
Our limbo otherwise strung,
otherwise comprehended.



Monday, November 15, 2010


Blog post # 130:

Transcendental Predicate

Flatness' Provocation

I don't know about these pictures. They are just adequate, as is most of my art I publish. I kind of like the name "Transcendental Predicate", though.


Wow, the second post in two days. I'm post-a-matic.

I am angering myself -- and probably you all too -- because I am posting most of the poems I have written. That is NOT cool! My intent originally was to post only a very small sample of my poetry, if any at all. I myself hate reading poetry (mostly because I will inevitably copy the style of anybody else's poetry I read, an annoying habit). And my poetry is particularly nasty and cliche.

Yet, I like most of my poems I have written lately JUST BARELY ENOUGH to go ahead and publish them. It would be nice if I was more self-critical.

Fuck me.


The latest two poems I have written:

Pathways Vanquishing Our Relinquishment

Remembrances then iridescent,
they tell of
These games once bland.
Yet I still scrawl
The glyphs within
square-like spaces. And I
Still connect x's to their
progression through
That finitude otherwise eternal.
Yes, I am the
Player of transcendental
flatness. And we, we
Both collaborate in our conflict.
Ah, we each
Remember these lattices
inertly crystalline but
Entropically fluidic.
I did truly succumb to
My own predicates, ha.
But my postulated
Elongation was diminished.
So, we plagiarized
Those riddles of pen
versus ink. Then
We laughed upon
the grid of our
Immobility. Yes,
our losses were our
Confidence, and our
consciences were
Our equations. But
we remembered only
The blandness of such
spectacles. Thus.
We were revolted anew
by triumphs, by these
Pathways disabling
our meandering, those
Pathways vanquishing
our relinquishment.


Neither Cones Nor Beauty

Neither cones nor beauty
devour their peels.
But of their juices, they
gorge and supremely
Swallow such visions, yes.
For, in the molting
Of conical thorns, these
shapes become articulated
And otherwise counterfeit.
But such flowering cusps
Bend somewhat upwardly
to be that provocation,
To be that flatness
now penetrative.

Oh, neither
Knives nor curled wisps
consume all of all.

Yet the lavender and
the ludicrousness
Are certain to transform,
to congeal from point
To roundness to each
extremum imagined. Yes,
In literate geometries,
the slivers and
Shards are our strangeness.
We are then to
Be devoured, as peels
and juices and mass,
By these corpses still dying,
by cones
And beauty assumed
to vary, but also
To exist as senile,
to exist as our immaturity,
To exist as the bigotry of
Aged and youthful helices
each wound questionably.


Sorry, suckers,

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Focus On The Blurs

Blog post # 129:

Ludicrous Enrichment

Iridescent Ignition


An anagram!



So, as many of you know, I often drink lots of tea.

Hey, can I have my tea... to go!?...

(No problems there!..)


Poems, written yesterday and the day before.

Roundnesses All Protruding

Roundness' cusps evoke
their vertical rendering
Upon that egg-like seed.
And the seed is
Horizontal too upon
the dimensionality of
Both such lengths placed
curvedly, placed
As spires never oblique
or parallel. But of
This rhomboidal tangle
above us, the wisps
Become the inflections
artificially astray.
Yes, roundnesses all protrude
into their descent
And ascent and into their
receding outwardness.
Those curls, though, with
smooth topsides, they
Portray this ambiguity as
certain and as uncertain,
Portray the spheroids as
sharp, as if they
Were knives and strands
and calculation, oh.
Roundness' cusps evoke
this rotation quite
Rectilinear, true. Yet
the wheel spins as if it
Is toppled; it turns about
the axis perpendicular
To its center, turns
neither clockwise
Nor counterclockwise,
but it turns in its madness,
Flattening all disks into
circles and all circles
Into spheres, into such
dichotomous shapes composed
Of our geometric and
anthropomorphic ludicrousness.


Severing Of Combustive Implosiveness

Flowing with fire, such
crescents conjoin to be
Those flames upon this
vanguard. Oh, upon this
Facade of fiery light,
all arousal is our anger,
And all angles are acute,
surely. Yes, upon
That blaze's flattened
spirals, I am transposed
Through transcendence
unto this smoke of our din.
Oh, flowing with fire,
these stars become space,
And space returns to its
conjectures, to its
Possibilities in its
repressed condensation.
But those lies burn us as
our thoughts do also.
So, we ignite the
diagonally ascending clamor.
And it cuts us and blisters us
and takes
From us our ash. Yes,
in this cremation, we
Are soothed. But
the fire forms only its
Very iridescence from
that refraction. Yes, we
Are singed by our triteness,
singed again by our
Processes and by our
shame uttered between us
And the severing of
our combustive implosiveness.



Thursday, November 11, 2010

Absurd Sugar

Blog post # 128:

These are actually the best two pictures of mine created over the last four days. Man, I suck.

Asymptotically Finite

Interpolated Fruit


Stupid palindrome:

We snot tons, ew.


What one word would you use to describe the next decade on Earth, as you would predict it?

I would choose either: Hellacious, Fascist, or Absurd.


So sorry, but today I have THREE poems for you.

(All written over the last few days.)

These Semi-Swirls

Semi-swirls juxtaposed
with inner doppelgangers,
Each once becoming the
single string underneath --
Hyphenated and abutted,
these tubes are as
Half tori somewhat spiraled,
somewhat tapering.

Those quasi-nautili, they
behold their positioning
Inside the gape of a
vast semicircular hole.
Between that arc and
that truncation,
The object is curled,
yet it is orthogonal, yet
It is rectilinearly impure.
Oh, severed are
Those cones bent
introspectively. And they
Form the orbit around
nothingness. Yes,
These semi-swirls are
as such duplication,
Are as such doubling
quartered and cut, are as
Partiality winding clockwise,
partiality diminishing
Into but a lengthy point,
becoming only
The substance within
the hollowness within
This hideousness of
flatness, within this
Zeroness churning
fluidically, churning as
Segmented rings --
perhaps, yes, perhaps
Remaining perfectly
partial and parallactic.


In This Windy Trigonometry

From the spheroid's
top exterior,this wispy thing
-- Unimaginatively imagined
-- flows in one wave,
Arcing upwardly then
downwardly then completing
In its ascension. But
the curve is wondrously
Idiotic and is confusingly
simplistic, surely. It
Inflects upon the
circumference of that knob.
Yet its meandering is trite,
ha. Its minimization
Is absurd although truthful,
although periodic
As to existence's singularity.
And what is this
Material within such
disregard? Oh, what is the
Shape of individuality
repeated? In this windy
Trigonometry otherwise
stagnant, these filaments
Compose that rotation.
From sines/cosines
Abutted onto a
curvaceous zigzag, all
Oscillates -- yet but once.
For, certain am I
Of the blurriness. Yes,
certainly the thing
Is contingent and
contiguous and is failed via
Its porousness; yet it is
successful via its
Symmetry about quite an
annoying and inert
Placement, about the
spheroid of its unwrapping.


That Fruit Of Our Depiction

A globe, a lobe of substance
and spirit, its
Exoskeleton is smooth and
haphazard. But its innards
Are fulfilling and divisive,
as the beautiful pus
Within such fruit. Oh,
these segmentations contain
Both pulp and juices.
But the acidic slices
Of this corpse, they taste not
of introspection. Yet
We gaze into our own
conjuring inside that
Flesh, inside what is quite
a colorful uterus,
Yes. And the peel of this,
it becomes the
Severing of vegetation.
We are never, though,
To conceive of its semicircles,
of its spheres cut
Roundly, cut hypothetically
again. Oh, I
Deny my saliva those
sugars. But I still
Devour the polygons
and the sap. Yes, I
Consume both crescendo
and asymmetry. But
My sleep is only countered
by my swallowing.
And I am threatened by
that fruit of our
Depiction, that fruit of our
deaths each flavorful.