Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Created From Anger, We Are

Blog post # 164:
(164 = 2*41*2.)

Rot Of Balance

Madness Betraying Convergence


(I like this one.)

* * * * * * *
Various sine-waves gel.
I wove a glass universe.
* * * * * * *

(Does this anagram have to do with quantum physics, perhaps?)


Lots of talk about crimes-against-humanity, lately.
Everyone is committing crimes-against-humanity. Everyone is a monster, or so it would seem if you watch the news.

But, hey, you know what,

HUMANITY is a crime-against-humanity!

That's the ultimate fact. We are created from anger, we are.


Three poems today. Three. THREE!
(Written over the last few days.)

Geometries Redrawn And Ignorant

I forwent the nouns depicted
via spiraled adjectives.
And I denied those
lemniscates their origination.
Yet I shunned such flaps
doubled and adjacent.
For, these numerical words
recurred as my repetition.
They conveyed my cessation
never finite, never zero.

Yes, the poetry within me
was still surely
Infuriating but imperfect.
It was problematically
Equal to every theorem
rendered as idiotic,
As ludicrously remarkable.
Ah, I forwent
The riddles of negation,
yes. But I contained
In my mind my science.
Quite, I contained
In my imagination
such hypotheses of colorful
Recurrence. And I spoke
as these words do
Of nonexistence
thoroughly real. I spoke of
Such geometries redrawn
and ignorant. And I drew
Semicircular polygons
made from their own erasing
Onto plagiarized truthfulness
expressed as
Nouns depicted via adjectives
spiraled and spilled,
Depicted as adverbs
inarticulately clangorous,
But clangorously shapeless,
shamefully concocted,
Configured, and so formed.


Of Hopeful Murder

This death is desired and
precious. But yet it is
Feared by the murderer,
not by the one to bleed.
This death is magnificent
and despicable. For,
The murdered is a
demonic corpse. He is a
Shameful rot never to cease,
never to be preserved
Or punished for those
willful evils of all humanity,
Of all your own inner sainthood.
Oh, praise the
Murderer, the assassin
of our diminishment.
He sleeps inside such flattery,
ha. Yes, praise the
Act of slaughter, the act
of hideous decapitation.

We are as he, the murderer,
are as he,
The murdered. For, we too
have tormented
Innocence with our gall,
with our apathy.
And we will be the killer
of such wickedness;
And so we become an antagonist
that is existence. We
Will be the executioner of both
lies and truth. But
These executions are not
to be our remorse,
But are to indeed be
our method. They are
Our exaggeration and
completion and selfishness.
Oh, the death is our
fulfillment and enlightenment.
It is our solace and hope
and sudden damnation
Counterbalanced by our
intentions of loathsomeness
Now conquered,
now only avenged.


Coiled Knife

A curling cusp turns
and returns unto its
Vertex, unto its thickness
sharply touched.
It turns as a loop,
as a coiled knife cutting
Every emptiness within
its circle, within its
Ellipse drawn from
both ascent and descent,
From air. And it pokes
its own connectivity,
Severing the spaces
amongst this false metal.

Our rotation is the blade,
is the segmented
Torus afloat and
perpendicular. It is
The dangerous returning
of knife to self
To knife converged.
This rotation is the
Cylinder twisted into
a thin solid. It is the
Razor implying such
suicide, such an arc.

And the blood is hewn
from flesh, from
Flatness. Yes,
that knife is stagnant
But surely failing.
It spins and juts
Within, within its madness
and within its
Inner angles, within
its circles betraying
Their transition,
betraying their only
Endpoints each
introspectively angered,
Each agonizingly unrelenting,
Unbalanced, unrestrained.



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