Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Thinking Of Tongues

Blog post # 181:
(181 = a prime, perhaps. Never can be too sure with those primes. They're tricky sometimes.)

Artificially Traversed

Neurological Clove


Here's a joke only those who know some math will truly get.

The infinite set of natural numbers is the...


Okay, an anagram related somewhat to the above "joke":

Prime, Cosine, and Nautilus
I see spiral and continuum.


So, I may stay on the internet -- and therefore validate my existence in this universe -- after all. But maybe not, still.
[See my last post for background on this continuing saga.]

Maybe I will continue to have internet, but not have email. Or maybe I will break down and upgrade my operating system and browser so that I can continue to use the same email service I have been using.
But nothing is for certain now.
Stay tuned!... Even if I don't...


Two poems today.
(Written over the last two days.)

Of A Spilled Swirl Spun

The petals of a spilled swirl spun,
they are of both
Flesh and water. Their
imagination is multi-chromatic.
Oh, their thoughts are artificial,
as such shards manmade,
As such dangerous glass
traversing clockwise. And they
Transition through their
smoothness unto their madness.
Yet these fluidic prongs
arc as globs, arc as
Jutting droplets of
threatening juices. Ah, spun
Is the swirling returning within
its lower-right.
But its lower-left is
its fulfillment, is its yolk
And poetry dreamt. Yes,
the counterexamples of
Rotation are swallowed
and exceed entirety.
And nothingness also swirls,
also is as existence.
Yes, these petals of a
churning flower are
Weirdly typical. They
do become their evolution,
Do become that nautilus of
vanity and of circularity
Halved then formed to be
satisfyingly hemispherical.


Tricuspid Clove

A tricuspid clove is there
upon quite the disk.
It is relevant yet perhaps
plagiarized. Dismayed,
Its beauty is both
triangular and spherical,
Is either parabolic or
stagnant but tapering.

Ha, it is maybe of
metal or vegetation.
However, its skin is abrupt
and neurological.
And edgewise is this clove
within us; edgewise
Is this chunk of
madness flatly bulging.

Ah, a tricuspid clove of
oily clockwiseness, it
Exists in intermediacy and
is unexpressed
Here in an inert rotation.
But it tastes
Weirdly acidic, and
it protrudes as such
Crescents. Yes,
it is savory, and it ruptures
Inanimately. Willfully,
its flavor is euphoric
Although bland. For,
it does smell of fluids. It
Does feel of cusps tripled,
surely. It does
Imagine all to be
but a salve;
It imagines everything to be
But unreal and overlapping
as what is vague, as
What is only our
human satiation once culinary.


Stick around! in case I do.


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