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,

No comments: