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.



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