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.



Sunday, November 7, 2010

Tangents Of Our Stupidity

Blog post # 127:

Exception To Tangents

Glistening Of Ash

Metallic Nothingness

I know, I know. Metallic Nothingness should have been a black-and-white picture, given its name. But, hey, sometimes you have to create what you have to create.


Radical Radishes...



Short anagrams:

Airport =
Or a trip.

Evolution =
In/out love.


Speaking of stupidity...

I had a theory that one reason we may be getting dumber and dumber as a species is not just that the less intelligent are more likely to breed (as illustrated by the movie Idiocracy). People a 100 years ago were probably physically stronger in general than we are today due to the commonality then of tough manual labor and the relative lack of machinery as compared with currently. So, what will happen when computers more often do our thinking for us? Computers can already come up with math theorems, for instance. As AI becomes a bigger and bigger part of decision-making and takes over tasks (such as making art) once carried out by people, will human-beings become less intelligent on average? I would say that pocket calculators, for instance, have not been good for overall human IQ.

What are your thoughts, if you even have them anymore?



Tangents between such
spaces are only flung
As thoughtful ejecta
from all the universe,
From all of the edifice
incorrectly spherical.
Yet tangents are as an
abrupt and cursive polyp,
Are as spikes tilted
absurdly and rotated
Irregularly unto their
backsides. Yes, these
Linear wedges bluntly
protrude from that
Curvaceous course.
And they are unprovoked
By concavity, oh.
Surely they are doubtful of
The spirals, and are dubious
of the lemniscates.
But of cones, they are
imagined and are
Somewhat elliptical.

Yes, they are between
Their intermediacy
drawn inconsistently.

For, the tangents are
weird and scrawled within
This centrifugal foam.
They therefore truncate
Such bulbs at truth's
overtness. And then they
Relate those atoms to the
exteriors of prongs,
Becoming the
drooping ascension
of certainty,
Of exception.


Leroy Quet

Thursday, November 4, 2010

A Magic Rat-Man

Blog post # 126:

As usual, the pictures I post are made over the several days before I posted them. These were made over the last 4 days.

Paraphrased Periphery

Finitude Misinformed

Diminishment Of Algebra




(Is it a sign of the coming messiah?...)


Poll results!

Question: On a scale of 0 to 10, how certain are you that we exist?
(0 = absolutely certain we do not exist. 10 = absolutely certain we do exist.)

The poll received 6 votes, each vote for a different number.

The numbers receiving a vote were: 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10.
Their average is about: 6.83.

(No, I didn't vote in this poll. I myself would have probably picked some smaller number.)


New poll!

Which of these directions do you most want to travel from where you are currently?
North, Northeast, East, Southeast, South, Southwest, West, or Northwest?

This question is somewhat ambiguous on purpose.


Two poems, both written a few days ago.

Zigzagged Atrocities

Zigzagged atrocities
performed by absurd
Abstraction, all maddeningly
doodled, they
Tempt our adroit callousness
with such cursive,
With such disregard
never resented, never
Quadratic. Ah, surely,
these punctured swirls
Are certain of this
clutching, of this
Unjustified clamor
and its iridescent tableaux.

Zigzagged atrocities
meander about their loops.
But irregular are those
equilateral brains.
Yes, irregularly we
abruptly inflect and
Then return to our
retrogradation. For,
This course is coarse
and cowardly. It is yet
Paraphrased by peripheral
parallax -- right, left,
Rightward, leftward.
We are curvilinear, ha.
And reality is uncertain
of its anger,
Is ambivalent regarding
its symmetries
Both arrogant and
wiggled by wispy stillness.


Triumphant Failure

First, we permutate those
penciled specks amongst
Quite an intermittent grid.
But this flatness
Is blurry and absurd,
as is all truth, yes.
For, such x's are the scars
of our gambits, are the
Scars of our games made
into numbers surely drawn but
Only seemingly mathematical
or alphabetical, actually.
And we differentiate positions
of horizontality
Multiplied by verticality.
But ignored are the
Blasphemous diagonals
never deceiving. Oh, again in
Uncertain and incremental
transformations, numbers
Progress; yet, they do not
equate to misinformation,
Ha. Oh, from extremes to
intermediacy, this triumphant
Failure is our conceit,
and rectangularly
Summed are our pathways.
Yes, rectangular
Are these grids also square,
also flat and
Shapeless and overly finite.
And that withered game,
It does relinquish its
orthogonality so as to be our
Madness, so as to be our darkness
thus disregarded.