Sunday, October 31, 2010

Thoughts Of Implication

Blog post # 125:

Introspective Astrophysics

Twice The Halves

Of Woven Minds

(I most like "Of Woven Minds".)


Bad joke:

Why was the falsely-3-D illusion not substantive?....

...Because it was just a hollow-gram!... (Argg.)

(Appropriate joke, maybe, for... Hollow-ween.
Or maybe not.)


Two, two, poems: (I should be ashamed.)

(First written Oct 28.)

Against The Exterior Of Our Introspection

Drooping upwardly and
curvedly counterclockwise,
The spire turns unto its
inward cusp. It creates
Within its edges a
half-crescent coiling. And
It implies the truths
of partiality and weirdness.

And upon that point upon
such a claw, radiating
Against the exterior of
our introspection, ah, are
Prongs and light and cinders
of an implosive fire,
Are images and spit
and thoughts of astrophysics
-- It all expresses
its outward flow. It
All presumes those
sparks to be lines, to
Be polyhedral, yes.
And these cursive spells
Explode within the
vastness, horizontally
And vertically; obliquely
rotated, obviously
Arrogant. Oh, from this
word once mathematical,
Truth is excreted
and is yet counterintuitive.
It is denied and unexpected,
yes. But it is surely
Asymmetrical. It is
surely longitudinal. And
It is potentially shaped
as our ignorance, is
Potentially formed from
only its own vanishing
Poised upon our
ambiguous wonder
Wondrously inconsistent.


(Written today.)

Maybe The Spiral

Perhaps that winding cloth
is diminished as it
Progresses inwardly unto
a pinpoint shallowness.
Perhaps the distance is
illusory; yet its stillness
Is between such twisted gaps.
And maybe the
Curled paper is
backwardly coiled and is
Made upright yet diagonal
regarding its iterations.

Ah, rendered is the
tilted spiral of mental
Beauty and of thoughtful ugliness.
Are these conjured convergences
of all algorithms,
Of all introverted spectacles.
Oh, within
The turning within the
inflection within such
Again unceasingly,
the cloth is spun and is
Woven from specious substance.
It thus is
Insincere among its strands,
among those
Threads themselves helical,
themselves made from
Only questions and possibility.
And perhaps
This arcing shape is
continuous. Or maybe
The spiral undulates and
ambiguously (ambivalently)
Coincides with that
unexplained pathway
Multiplied simultaneously
as it is dampened.



Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Eclipse Of Truth

Blog post # 124:

Forwardly Equilibrial

Ludicrous Substance

Mysterious Circumferences

Counterintuitive Gnomon


All these people now days: so stupid and gullible, so evil. I guess they are...


(That's "naive" mixed with "evil". It's easier to say phonetically than to write out.)


Now scientists are saying that the universe may be a 2-dimensional illusion that only seems to be 3-dimensional -- a hologram projected from the edge of the universe. As a matter of fact, scientists are currently building a so-called "holometer" (Google it) at Fermilab that might PROVE this all is just an illusion.

I always suspected that the "gods" (who may be nothing more than scientists in a higher-level more real universe) would have us all never find out the truth of our illusion. That may still be a fact -- maybe the illusion doesn't have the nature that will seem to have when we are finally "enlightened".
But I must praise them for at least revealing that this all IS an illusion of SOME type, whatever that type really is.


And finally, the poem I wrote today:

The Sundial Despised

I despised the sundial
and its shadows counted.
Yet, of its ambiguous gnomon,
ah, there was
Truth's imbalance.
And truth knew
Of sunlight and dimness
amongst the numbers,
Amongst the increments
permutated by ignorance.

Oh, darkness told us of
the hours within it.
But daylight retained its
imagination so as to
Become these resentful
polygons upon which
We depict our humanity.
Oh, such a timepiece
Wonders regarding its
solitude and its
Spectacle thusly selfish.
For, I despised
That inanimate clockwork.
Yet I forgave
Its mathematics.
Because its multiplicity knew
Of those random visions
drawn onto its face.

And I knew of its unease.
Yes, I knew of this
completion of waking
And of artifices all circular,
each ecliptic.



Saturday, October 23, 2010

Nothing To Believe In

Blog post # 123:

Juxtaposed Impediments

Perched Upon Its Drowning


Is Nothingness (upper-case N)
convex or concave?


Does believing in something -- a lot -- mean that it is true? (Due to quantum physics or magic or something?)

What if you believe that things aren't necessarily as you believe?

What if you believe that NOTHING that you believe -- not even this particular belief expressed in this sentence -- is as you believe? Does that screw with the universe?

Anyway, maybe this is all a dream, and the dream plays itself out as I think it will. (I sure hope not, since I think we are doomed.)
But what if I believe that this is not a dream? Does that make it real? I know I've dreamt that I was not dreaming. And I was dreaming anyway, it turned out. But maybe I am dreaming that what I believe can often be wrong.

I don't know what is real! I don't know what to believe! Should I not believe in anything?

There are people who almost everything they believe, or at least claim they believe, is the exact opposite of the truth.
At least according to what I believe.

What if I just didn't believe in these people anymore? They are too ignorant to exist.

That's why I think I am dreaming. Because the idiots are so profoundly wrong, they can't possibly be real.

(Did I mention I think we are doomed?)


Poem: Written today: Inspired by second picture above.

Quasi-Fluidic Butterfly

Perched upon air, upon this
voice of imagined minds,
Is a quasi-fluidic butterfly.
Drowning, it falls
Onto the grid beneath us all.
And it speaks of
Sand, speaks of seeds
seemingly drawn
as exoskeletons.

Oh, sprouting from
weird germination, the death
Of bugs impedes such impetus.
But these wings
Invoke my
thoughtful imperfection.
These insects
Invoke my unease. And
I pause for our doom
And hideous vanishing.
Yes, I drown as
My spit, and I breathe as
my voice. And I fly
As my very grounding.
Oh, I float as
Such hydroponics, as
these aerodynamic dreams.

Amongst myself, I am
perched upon my existence.
Ah, I am asleep upon
my emptiness, am sleeping
Within my corpse yet bigoted,
yet hindered
By blurriness feigned.



Thursday, October 21, 2010

Stupid Stupid Stupid

Blog post # 122:

Stupidity's Hypotenuses

Hazardous Fulfillment


(My favorite of these is Hazardous Fulfillment; but I might reconsider because this picture is so gosh darn cliche.)


So, you know what the world does not need? A Pixar movie about Sarah Palin, that's what.

I see it now. She's shooting wolves from a helicopter, and a bunny rabbit on the sidelines says with snark,
"So,.. she's a cat person."..


Okay, here's a crude joke.

How is a bran muffin like a screwdriver?

Answer: Both can help loosen up your stools.

(Har har)

Not only is this joke not funny, but I think I stole it.

Anyway, some jokes are funny just BECAUSE they are stupid.

But if that is true,... then
why doesn't Sarah Palin make me laugh?

(Maybe she is more of a stupid PRACTICAL joke.... pulled on us all.)


Okay, a poem inspired by the last picture above.
(Cut me some slack! I have't posted a poem in a while, now.)
(Written today.)

Such A Fissure

Such a fissure demands
this stone to be of entropy,
Despite the cutting seam's
own irregular crumbling.
Yes, despite that fault,
the rock is bending. It
Halves into a third.
And it severs into its
Realities all crystalline
and foreshortened.
Oh, yet from (and yet within)
the gap, a fluid
Is spilled as it flows
from air above.
In this space, water drops
and curves
And floods the impediment
almost concrete.
Yes, downwardly, the liquid
becomes a knife.
Although it is but soothing
of this solidified
Gash. And such a fissure
bisects but only
The artifice of glass.
It seeps as the rain
Into earth's tortured conceit.
Yes, the
Groove does drip onto
truth's counterbalance, onto
Truth's coincidence of stone
and its divide, onto
Mental blood therefore equal
to our own thirst,
Equal to our own
concave drowning.



Monday, October 18, 2010

To Be Or Not To Be

Blog post # 121:

Entropic Syrup

Aroma Of Arrogance

Senility Of Circles

Catatonically Clockwise

(My favorite of these is Catatonically Clockwise.)


Poll results:
Which of these tableaux is your favorite to contemplate?

1) Nuclear blast. Black light. Nautilus.

One vote, mine.

2) String. Dynamo. Dried blood.

No votes.

3) Clock. Speedometer. Crumpled paper.

One vote.

4) Punk-rocker. Aspirin. Wine bottle.

Six votes! The winner by a large margin.

5) Butterfly. Meat-cleaver. Protractor.

Two votes.


New poll: On a scale of 0 to 10, how certain are you that we exist?
0 is absolutely certain we do NOT exist.
10 is absolutely certain we do exist.


I am certain, I think, that many many people, including likely myself, will be killed within the next couple years when either President Barack or President Sarah starts a full-scale nuclear war.

And if that doesn't happen, I am sure I will lose my health insurance and die of an otherwise treatable disease within the next couple years, anyway.

And since I do not want to get laid anyway, then why should I care about my health and my appearance? Why can't I just enjoy life and eat as much as I am hungry for, say, no matter how fat doing so will make me?

And besides, gaining weight may actually SAVE my life. Say, that in the near future, the new ultra-right Christian regime in America carries out a pogrom against homosexuals. First they might round up all of us who are not married. But when they get one look at my fat self, they will know that, hey, this guy isn't married because he's fat, not because he's gay. And maybe then they will leave me alone.

But then they will kill me anyway when they come for the atheists or the progressives.


Proof that God is evil:
God created man, and man created politics.

By the way, may ALL the politicians just burn in Hell! Damn the assholes!


No poetry today!


Thursday, October 14, 2010

Apologies To Wind

Blog post # 120:

Cyclically Upended

Underside Of Apparitions


(First a poem, then more below.)


Those two wings of a despised void
within them, they
Pivoted about an iridescent fulcrum,
ha. And they
Both curled counterclockwise,
yet in opposition. For,
They floated as all swirling feathers,
as all
Torquey fluids therefore
mathematically circular
And mandalic.
Oh, between their frustums,
This emptiness displayed its
cusps and ribbons. But
It too swirled. However,
it seemed to be vertically
Upended and flowing.
There, the contraption
Swung into cyclic stillness,
rotating forth as
A whirlwind and ascending
as an unimpressive
Bug. Yes, it ascended as
imagination's ghost yet
Hallucinated and alone.
Oh, the thermals did
Become that object.
And skyward, it betrayed
The ground in its gaining.
Yes, its laziness was
Only in its horizontality.
Yet it now slants
And rises unto its collapse
upon cosmos' spectacle
Above it. It rises unto its
collapse again upon
The universe's form overwhelming
and now spinning,
Now asymmetrical.
And despite all, everything's axis
Has achieved existence via such
an impaired artifice,
Via such ambidextrous breath
surely actuated.



The Gothic Sun


Nice Thoughts


Bible = Buy-Bull

(Sorry, but this word-play is true, I think.)


Orange seems like such a bland color to me. Yet it is between the colors of red and yellow on the spectrum, and those colors can be quite brilliant. But orange is the color of orange juice, which is tangy. So, maybe orange is a tangy color, if not a brilliant one.

PS: I know, I know, orange can indeed be brilliant. I am just repeating here what I read in a dream.


In the future, I think it will be so easy to travel about the world -- with super-fast and cheap transport and the easing of travel restrictions -- that the majority of people won't even remember which countries they have visited in their lives.


Another poem. (Sorry.)

A Spiral Of Slender Disregard

If such a spiral of slender disregard
curves but
Once then turns but twice,
does it foresee
Its angular transposition
upon its own
Conjoining? Ah.
This twisting coil does impurely
Implode yet against its underside,
true. However,
Its breath is cleaved into
its wings as quite
A cursive butterfly.
If such a spiral does lift
To dream of the shadows of
colossal asymmetries,
Will those syrupy apparitions
that are its
Substances become the rotation
of certain bugs?
Yes, into this spinning of a
curled thought,
The spiral is surely as
flavors and string
All flowing rancidly
through our sky,
Through cosmic ellipsoids
containing us
And our equilateral wings
unsurpassed by
The spirals of disregard
shouting intravenously.


[Is "rancidly" a word? It should be one.]



Monday, October 11, 2010

Scattering Of Things

Blog post # 119:

Infinitely Dimensional Delirium



Why does tea taste good cold, and tea tastes good hot, but when it is in the middle at room-temperature, then it tastes terrible?



Idea for country song:

I'm not a hard-working man.
I take a break whenever I can.
I'm in LOW-GEAR.

No, I'm too lazy to get a job.
I'm such a worthless slob.
I keep going nowhere fast.
This relaxation is meant to last.
I'm in LOW-GEAR.
Yeah, LOW-GEAR [in really deep voice]


Commercial for anti-social-phobia medicine:

Egg, jackhammer sounds, cracks form in egg, chicken steps out of egg with jackhammer in its wing.
Narrator: "Sometimes you just need a little help coming out of your shell".

[Arrggg. Sorry. I hate Big Pharma. Why would I give them an idea for an ad?]


A word puzzle. Take a certain 4-letter word. It is the first 4 letters of a 5-letter word. Take a 3-letter word that is a synonym of the 5-letter word. Saying the 4-letter word and then the 3 letter word fast in succession PHONETICALLY gives a 5-letter word that does NOT describe anyone who reads my blog. What are these words?

The 4-letter word, the first 5-letter word, and the 3-letter word all have one syllable each. The final 5-letter word has 2 syllables.

Answer in comments to this blog post.

Hint: The first letter of the 4-letter word is the 9th letter of the title of this blog-post.


Finally, a poem. (NO! LEROY, NO!)
I wrote this yesterday.

The Puncturing Of Dreams

All, it is punctured,
soiling its anatomy, soiling
Its thoughts with our delirium.
I taste such
Tongues, yes, as they pierce
the very spaces implied
By everything and its
infinite dimensions soothed.

I speak of knives and speak
of flatness. Thus,
All is cleaved, and we are
severed into
These bounded inaccuracies
once human, once
Artificial. Oh,
the swirling truths of our
Presumed existences,
they puncture through
Nothingness and nothing.
Yes, they cut the
Edifices of our psychoses,
cut these introspective
Brains within, within
each dream. Ah, subdued
Are those alphabets
enumerated but still
And I finally wake to
Jut my imagination
through itself. Yes, I
Do puncture my very will
with whispers,
With screams
stubbornly initiated.


[As you must have noticed, this poem and the last poem I posted I have divided each line up into two lines so that the carriage-returns work better. Compare with my older poems I posted to this blog, where line-breaks were uncontrolled by me because the lines were too long.]



Saturday, October 9, 2010


Blog post # 118:

I made these 3 pictures over the last 5 days.

Equilibrial Partiality

Wronged By Iridescence

Malformed Presumptions


Okay, a little politics, just a little.

Now I'm referring to the former president as

Gee-Ogre W Bush!



Yo, copulaters!


Your poles act.


Finally, a poem:
(Not very original.)

Between Such A Strange Configuration

Perpendicular wings of
a tortured butterfly
Sustain my brain within
their intermediacy. Oh,
one wing rises horizontally,
the other wing
Is outstretched vertically.
And I think inside
The middle. Yes, I
contemplate conjectures of
Flight and impediment.
But my thoughts are
Twisted orthogonally into
a grand tableau. Ah,
I surely extrapolate
my disembodiment of
Mental mind from corpse.
And yet, despite
Such peculiar plagiarism,
I am wrapped
In glossy flaps, these
wings of bland beauty.
Yes, I am held amongst
my single consciousness;
For, I sleep in quite a
maddening and
Human chrysalis.
For, I am deprived of
My levitation. Here, I
am contained
And grounded at the
center of solitude's flesh,
Am contained between
such a strange configuration,
Between my very musculature
of this,
My edifice and entropy,
my captivity.



Monday, October 4, 2010

Prism Of Words

Blog post # 117:

(I made the first two pictures yesterday, and the last picture today.)

Mediocre Glass

Yet Cone Parts Prism

Meandering Edifice

Note: The middle picture was inspired by an anagram. (See just below.)
Yes, the title came before the image idea.



Yet cone parts prism.
My art's perceptions.

(Note name of middle picture above.)


(Some of you have seen this already.)

There are at least two word groups, each group being of FOUR different 3-letter words, where the words are anagrams of each other. The words are not proper nouns or abbreviations, and they would all be acceptable words to use in Scrabble. What two groups (each of four words) are they?

Are there more than two groups of four 3-letter words that are anagrams of each other? (I thought there was only one such group until Kevin Stone and others on the rec.puzzles newsgroup found another such group of words.)

Here is a three-word group: Art, Rat, Tar. But we need four words.


I am trying to start a movement for writers to write of someone's "limbic system" instead of that someone's heart when talking about the person's emotions and instincts. Why do we talk about the heart in this way in the first place? The heart is just a muscle with blood in it. Talking about the heart as some sort of seat-of-the-soul is cliche and idiotic, I think. The limbic system in the brain is the real source of our emotions and instincts, at least that's what scientist now believe. Yes, people once thought the heart was the source of our emotions, but the science changed. Maybe someday we will find that emotions really derive from the pineal gland or something. But until them, wax poetic about your "limbic mind", I say!


At BEST, democracy is only a game, nothing more. Even when it fulfills our ideas of what it should be, it is only about numbers. Imagine a political vote that comes down to only a few voters. Why should almost 50% of the population be completely denied what they want politically simply because of literally a few votes? Hell, the outcomes of elections can literally be a case of life vs death for lots of people. Is it fair to ignore the human rights of the minority over a numbers game? And, as I said, at best, democracy is only a game.

At worst, the CIA or some other shadow group of elites actually decides every political decision in America, anyway.


Okay, since I am in the mood, I will post a poem. But skip over it if you don't care for my poetry.

(I wrote this yesterday. It was inspired somewhat by the top picture above.)

Beauty Of A Substantive Void

Drawn within the glass nautilus, within this
Spiral of refraction and introspection, I saw
But nothingness and its wires and its threads
Made of emptiness' solidity. I saw amongst these
Shards of silver such intermediacy and mediocrity
Recreated as grand, recreated as the very
Beauty of a substantive void. And upon the
Completion of that coil, there the cloth radiated
Outwardly twice opposed. And as ribbon and colored
Currents exploding, those streamers became
Their origination and attachment to the oneness
Of zeroness of that clear spiral abutting.

Oh, drawn was light amazed by its observance.
Yet we notice such hideousness in these winds,
In the wings of curving exoskeletons. Oh,
We only halve our humanness at this moment
That lemniscate conjoins with spiral, that
Imagination conjoins with plagiarized uneasiness,
Conjoins with conforming rotation exceptionally



Saturday, October 2, 2010

Not Too Clever

Blog post # 116:

The three most recent pictures of mine:
(I enjoy their names much more than I enjoy the images themselves.)

Three-Fourths A Dream

Exception To Counterbalances

Astronomical Sap



Now as a harpy lies
Yes, Sarah Palin, ow.

(Not too clever, anagram-wise, but fitting anyway.)


The modern age is the Neon Eon.


Raw sewage is the grossest thing ever.
I prefer MY sewage to be medium/well-done....


Okay, now that the fun stupid crap is out of the way, here is the un-fun pseudo-intellectual crap.

Poetry! (Arrggg!)

First poem was written two days ago.

Of An Anthropomorphic Bean

Three-fourths the torus, 3/4 the rotation of
An incomplete ring -- then upon what would be
Otherwise such a truncation, the cylinder descends
And exists as quite an absurd extreme, ha.
And in the penetration downwardly, there a
Single sprout of an anthropomorphic bean, it
Rises to encase the weird item above. There,
The plant meanders about that unexplained
Steam. Then it breathes of beauty unseen.
And it sleeps upon air and silt and crystal.

Oh, 3/4 the germinated thing, it grows into
A stranger torus yet. For, vegetable and
Imbalance somewhat replicate, despite their
Ugliness. But these leaves and stems
Of our human fluids will never quite
Reveal flesh's poisonous lust. Yes, the sprout
Is wound around its anger. It grasps anew
At its soul's shape, and then it metastasizes;
Then it dreams of libido and hideous
Damnation soon to turn and drip, soon
To recreate all imagination from only
A pod, from just a bean of accident
And 3/4 circles themselves reniform.


Last poem was written today:

Planets Of Steam And Color

Planets of steam and color, around planets of neon
Made from fuchsia, from glass; the crystalline strands
Encircle this quasi-sphere; and they form such a
Refractive annulus, yes. Ah, these rings incline,
But only minimally. And they vary in increments.
They utter these undulations of curvature. Yet
They translucently depict their gloss as simply
Artificial, amorphous, and mysteriously visceral.

And the quasi-sphere within, its gasses swirl
And transform blood into sap. Yet that
World does become our beckoning. It is
Darker than its very eclipses. And it is
Damper than those strings wound about it.
For, a crumpled thing such as this place, its
Foolishness is the ice afloat amongst it.
However, these winds rotate as opaque water
In that sphere within circles. Oh, the dimensions
Of all of it are looped into a consistent twine,
Are looped into our astronomy somewhat above us
And utterly spiteful of our blatant intuition.