Monday, May 30, 2011

Thoughtful Arts

Blog post # 194:
(194 = 2*97.)
(Sorry about the pretentious blog-title.)

Algorithmic Eclipse

Perfumed Fire

Formulae Of Shadows



Thoughtful Arts
A Truthful Ghost


Thoughts = Hot Thugs

(This one is for the OCDers out there.)


The Very Meaning
Everything, Amen


Stupid jokes!
(Some of these I may have heard before.)

How do they know the moon is made of green cheese?...

Because of its cre-SCENT!...


Why are hermaphrodites smarter than the rest of us?...

Because they are andro-GENIUS!...


What kind of animal doctor only treats white-skinned pets?...

The veterin-Aryan!...


What is in baby brains?



Why was the philosopher thrown in the mental hospital?...

He was considering suicide! (among other topics)


Okay, enough of that crap. Let's have some poll results!


Which number should finish this number poem?
"1 - 3 - 5 - 2 - 4 - 6 - 12 - 1 - 2 - 3 -..."

There were 7 votes total.

The winner, 6, received 3 votes. (One of those votes was mine.)

A close second was 7, with 2 votes.

0 and 4 each received 1 vote.

1, 2, 3, 5, 8, and 9 each received no votes.

Thanks for playing.


No poetry today! Yay!



Thursday, May 26, 2011


Blog post # 193:
(193 is a prime, like me, man.)

Bisected Or So Bifurcated

Unrelenting Tori

Unsightliness Transposed

Of A Protruding Gap



Thin Rainbow
An Orb Within


Vast Loop = Oval Spot


Slave Ho = Has Love


A new word (needed): "Dethink",

as in, "I will dethink that proposal, " or, "I will dethink the evil thoughts in my head".

OCD'ers, such as myself, often believe that dethinking something involves thinking hard of that something's opposite.
In any case, lots of the thoughts humanity has thought, thought which turned out to be big mistakes, definitely need to be dethought, however we are to do that.


Sorry, got to rant (again) about this:
The world fucking sucks shit, evil evil shit. (Grammar note: Shouldn't it be "fuckingly"??) Every day I am overwhelmed by all the horrible horrible news I read in the paper and on-line. (Forget TV news, though, that's all BS about nothing important.) I almost want to kill myself, the world sucks so very much. I'm sick of it here on Earth, I really am. Am I already dead and this is Hell?? Seriously.


But the GOOD news??? No poetry today!



Sunday, May 22, 2011

Bidirectional Thoughts

Blog post # 192:
(192 = 2*2*2*3*2*2*2.)

Suffer These Palindromes

Metallic Psychosis

Countercongruent Rot


Anagrams, for your pleasure:

A globe rises, lags.
ie. As balls or eggs.


Lord's Wisdom
Worlds So Dim


Ah, we do palindromes.
Oh, draw as lined poem.


Speaking of palindromes (and eggs)!...

Sue, kill; egg gel like us.

(Not too clever, not at all; but I wasn't trying too hard.)


Poem, written yesterday:

Stupidity Of These Palindromes

The stupidity of
these palindromes is a
Consequence made from
such unreal pencillead.
It is drawn halfway
into an inconsistent grid.
And it is arrayed as
almost every game,
And is thus unpeculiar,
and is thus stupid.

Furthermore, horizontality
defines the gambit,
Though verticality defines
our strategies lapsed.

Yet all is a stupid god, ha.
Yes, these
Palindromes are rendered
unto their determination,
Are achieved unto
their detriment. However,
Unnumbered are the particles
of that gameboard;
And unspoken is each
square either of mass or
Of counterbalance. ...
Then, then we suffer
This enumeration
difficult but algorithmic.
Yes, we stupidly triumph
in the orthogonality
Of questionable palindromes,
palindromes that we
Never reflect or misinterpret,
that we never
Foolishly conceive in any
row or column without
Its integers
except those
of equality negated.


(Note, the factorization of today's blog number is also a palindrome. Wow!)


Thursday, May 19, 2011

True Rot

Blog post # 191:
(191 = a prime, I believe.)

Wrongly Round

Inertia's Metamorphosis

Edgewise Zenith

Inexactly Formed Incorrectly

Vertical Circles Arcing Horizontally

(My favorite is "Inertia's Metamorphosis".)



I knit thoughts.
Thug is to think.


True Rot


Liberals' Certainty
Its Cerebral Litany


Speaking of torture; the CIA seems to be controlling everyone in a position of power, without exception.
(They DID experiment with mind-control.)

I say, the CIA controls even God's mind.

Beware. There is *no one* who can be trusted.


Now something a little lighter...

One who smooches even though they don't want to is a...
... maso-kissed!...


No poetry today! (Yay!) All the poems I have written since I last posted to this blog suck even by my standards!



Sunday, May 15, 2011

Arty Lie

Blog post # 190:
(190 = 2*5*19.)

Five pictures today. (Wow!)

Toxic But Moist

Narrowly Approximate Fulcrum

Unobtainable Failure

Implicative Ooze

Molten Torque


Check out these short but appropriate anagrams:

Arty Lie


Reality TV
Tarty Evil


Dumb joke:

A short holyman who thinks everyone will go to Heaven when they die is..
a little opti-mystic...


A dumber joke:

Why does a dog like to smell another dog's butt?

It's in-stink-tive...

(I may have heard this one somewhere.)


And now, no more funny-business:

There are no more Utopias.

With even the otherwise most-liberal world societies moving to the far right lately, who will kick the fascists' asses this time, since everyone is fascist?


Poll report! Poll report!

What is the number of positive integers (in base 10) where each such number has no two or more digits with the same value?

The choices were:

There were 6 votes total. (I know, I know, the count was 12 votes. But I am sure this is due to a bug with Blogger that doubled each vote.)
And the vote was unanimous: All votes went for "infinity".

And this is unanimously WRONG!
(No such counted integer can be over 9876543210. So the answer was finite.)

The real, but unchosen, answer was 8877690.


And now another poll! Let's finish the number poem!

This does involve numbers, but not math. The numbers are more analogous to the notes of a song.

I'll start, then pick one of the one-digit numbers to be the next and final note.

Which number should finish this number poem?
"1 - 3 - 5 - 2 - 4 - 6 - 12 - 1 - 2 - 3 -..."


Two poems today. Written 2 days ago and today.

No Such Relinquishment
Is Contained

Inside this hollowness
of the apathetic knot,
Imprisoned droplets fall
diagonally and equal these
Spires. They protrude
internally into that concavity,
Into that sinful gape of
a virtuous enclosure.

And they are numbered
alphabetically but are
Yet misnamed. Yes. Quite,
they stab us despite their
Unobtainable mathematics,
despite their paradoxical
Observations otherwise unseen.
Unjustly, no such
Relinquishment is contained
within this corpse, within
This pretentious rind
drawn as solidity excepted.

Here, the droplets do hang,
do levitate between
Failure's form, between the
one dream of erroneousness
And unreality. Surely, those
drops are parallel but
Are elongated amongst their
dampening. Shapelessly,
They are pondered amongst
their epitomization. And
They are positioned amongst
an opaque hole of
Irregular sphericalness,
amongst a hole of
Truth's sad amnesia
ignorantly unreachable.


Braided Strangeness

A braided strangeness
extends through the circle
Unto another loop before it
and beyond it. And
Between it, between
that elongation, such a strand
Is thickened and is multiplicative.
Yet the
Winding rectification of
everything is entwined
To be its helix, to be
its existence rotated
About diameters each
of breadth, each of
Continuousness bent roundly.
Oh, the form of
An illogical braid,
it turns as our
Knotted axis and becomes
our human course.
Yes, we spin as we transcend,
To the lower-right.
And we suffer
That twisting and that torque,
indeed. We do wring
Our preponderances
from our wrapping,
From our mentalities
transiting their phonemes,
Transitioning their utterances
all of a molten rope,
All of this passion we force
innocently into its
Periodicity made from
angularity and anger, into its
Periodicity molded from
churning trigonmetries
(Trigonometries we
implicatively botched,
Imperatively braided).



Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Lepidopteran Cerebrations

Blog post # 189:
(189 = 3*3*3*7.)

I know I posted something on my blog just yesterday. But today I wanted to publish a short post with a theme.

Butterfly Brain



As our butterfly's brain;
it but frays unreal orbs.


Poem, written today.
(Do you sense a pattern?)

Brain Of The Butterfly

The brain of the butterfly,
oh, is it iridescent?
Does it too ascend and
form its colors from
Clockwise crescendos?
Does this, the insect's blob of
Neurological spectacle,
become its own imaginings?

Does it glisten and glow and
exceed its obviousness?
Oh, is it also of all and
every zenith, as are these
Wings inside its proximity,
inside its approximations?

Yes, in such dissimilarity and
symmetry -- this brain
Composing that translucent bug
-- its amnesia is of
Glass, and its summations
are of its magic.
Yes, in the ebbing of the
butterfly's thoughts, it does
Conjure and weave our
crystalline but lonely mathematics.

And that mind was
metamorphic and was
Once asleep in an unsustained
but threatening cocoon.
Yet the butterfly has waken,
and maybe is not now more
Than its flight or its dreams.
Perhaps the butterfly is
Only existent, it is only
drawn unjustly, as
Consciousness' aesthetics
might always be. Or maybe
It is to ponder its wonder
and its wandering; maybe it is
To think not of colorlessness,
nor of hallucinations, nor
Of visions each of such a spirit,
each of such a biology,
Each of such contemplation
regarding madness, regarding
Mentality, regarding the
butterfly's love and
Limbic geometry, regarding
its psychoses and confusion
And genius created,
but thus repressed,
But thus demeaned in its
in its aptitude.



Monday, May 9, 2011

Unstable And Impure

Blog post # 188:
(188 = 2*47*2.)

Unstable Unreality

As My Impure Doubts



Mess Around
Random Uses



If the Libyan rebels and Kadafi end up sharing their country by 'splitting' it up, then the two new countries can be called...

Libya Majora and Libya Minora....

[Note: Googling "Libya Majora" brings up 23400 hits. But Googling "Libya Minora" brings up only 545 hits, about 1/43rd as many. That's weird.
I think "Libya Majora" is more popular because Jon Stewart did something on this. Question: Should I have posted "my" joke in my blog if: (1) I came up with the joke independently, but (2) the same joke occurs all over the place on-line already (but I didn't know this before, but I know it now)? Maybe Stewart has UFO technology that enabled him to steal my joke from the future and send it to his show's writers in the past. Yeah, that's it.]


Each group of 8 times around a planet would be an...
.. orbyte!...


Poem, written yesterday:

As Two And Its Samenesses

Divided, the sphere
Is entirety and its slices.
And it is rendered
As hemispheres doubled and
as malformation opposed.
Throughout its
exterior intermediacy, a sharp disk
Multiplies and divides such a lobe.
Twice, it is to be.

Again, each hemisphere is
but the curve and
Cutting of its counterpart.
Oh, those two halves
Combine upon the
one point of their bending.
There, the disk interferes
and is that agony.

Yes, between these
segmentations, flatness is
Round, and it too severs
bulging convexity, true.
Truly, divided are the parts
of this configuration.
And as two and its samenesses,
the tableau is
Translucent but unreal.
It is only subdivided
And thus combined.
Yes, such hemispheres are
Obliquely deprived of,
though entwined in, their
Interconnection. And
they are somehow of this
Crescent wronged, are
somewhat of this parallelism
Soon to be unstable but repeated,
but un-unified.



Saturday, May 7, 2011

Write, Scream, And Sing

Blog post # 187:
(187 = 11*17.)

Parenthetical Crescendo

Irrespective Coexistence

Neither Divide Nor Multiply


No anagrams today. Sorry.

But I DO have a song! I wrote this recently.
Its melody is unoriginal, so it is a good thing you can't hear that. :P
(PS: I *am* OCD, for real.)

I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.
Yeah, I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

I can't get enough of these things
bothering me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

Don't blame me, man. Don't blame me.
I'm not to blame 'cause
I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

I can't get enough of these things
bothering me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

Oh, don't you blame me, man.
Don't blame me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.
Yeah, I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

They say I'm psycho. They say I'm a hoarder.
They say I've got Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
They say I wash my hands 100 times a day.
I'm thinking these crazy thoughts;
Repeatedly repeating, repeating what I say.

I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.
Yeah, I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

I can't get enough of these things
bothering me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

Don't blame me, man. Don't blame me.
I'm not to blame 'cause
I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

I can't get enough of these things
bothering me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.

Oh, don't you blame me, man. Don't blame me.
'Cause I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.
Yeeaahhh, I'm OCD, man. I'm OCD.


Two poems to finish this post.
(Written the day before yesterday and yesterday.)

Midpoints And Endpoints

Of these pairs never dichotomous,
a game is disregarded
But conjured. It is
quite rectangular but not
Iridescent. And it
is glossy yet unjust. Yes,
From midpoints or endpoints,
the lines are
Scribed in unison until
such possibilities. Then
I am asymmetric but foregone.
Then we are
Tallied unto our configurations.
And this game,
Ha, it is of alternation and
perpendicularity. But
That lattice is equilateral.
And it is again
Arrayed as the growing plexus
so as to be a crescendo
Of dissimilarity. Yes,
the un-dichotomous pairs
Are halved and sometimes
unfulfilled. But they
Do exert their
parenthetical groupings upon
This cloth, upon this
enumeration implied via
Midpoints and endpoints and
games each serpentine,
Each interconnected, each
woven within their execution.


The Strings And The Solidities

A blob and a loop conjoin
within their merging
To be elongated and
outstretched as quite a
Lengthy lemniscate. Yet
all is counterbalanced and
Unbalanced both regarding
its substances and shape,
Irrespectively. And the
lemniscate protrudes through
The round loop of
equiangularity. But this loop
Too is balanced and unbalanced
with the disk
Of its same outline.
That disk is propped upon the
Left; the round loop is
intermediate; and
The lemniscate protrudes
unto the middle's right.

Opposed, though, are
the strings and the solidities.

Yet the blob and loop
coexist within their
Antipodal arrangements,
within this tableau
Rendered from invisibility
and potential. Yes,
The loop and the blob
envelop their impairments
And impediments, and,
still, they are alternating.
Still, they are sequential
and dichotomous and
Partitioned into such equality,
are partitioned into
That suspension, into
that levitation and its
are partitioned into these
Sadly noteworthy metamorphoses
Of duality's anachronisms.



Wednesday, May 4, 2011


Blog post # 186:
(186 = 2*31*3.)

Such Molten Consequence

Indirect Sequentiality



ESP Spiral
As Ripples

(Is this a sign from the language gods??)

A Rude Scientist
True, Rude Sadist


Blade is on a man.
Osama bin Laden



Why do bakers find it difficult to get dates?

Because they are too knead-y...


One last thing before my poem. Google is on a blog-deleting frenzy lately, either due to a faulty spam-detection program, a bug, or hacker(s).

So, read my blog while you still can!


Poem, written today:

A Puzzle Winding Indirectly

Of this puzzle, the bends
and intersections are
Disclosed, but not any more
of such a topology.
Oh, of this lattice;
the lines are rectilinear but
Orthogonally crooked upon
that mesh, upon that
Ordered game otherwise played,
upon a game otherwise
A poem made of
binary alphabetization, yes. And
I wondered if the
multiplicities and pluralities
Of these solutions were denied.
But my praise was
For my own intellect,
despite my ignorant
Illogicality. Ah, yes,
of the grid without lines
-- Although lines are
still superimposed --
Our perplexing ponderings
determine such a riddle
To be minimal, simple,
and diminished. Yet my
Puzzle is grand within
its meanderings. And it
Soon is to be formed
into potentiality's triumphs.
It soon is to be
resented by idiots and
By persons otherwise hateful
of this course through
Squares arranged amongst
squares, arranged
Into puzzles
winding indirectly, winding
Unobviously around their
lack of nonexistence,
Winding around our lack
of ambiguous pathways each
Never diagonal, around our
lack of pathways never
Confounding, never
exceeding their sequentiality.



Monday, May 2, 2011

Atrocities Of The Will

Blog post # 185:
(185 = 5*37.)

Dim Observation

Convincing Faultiness

Opaque Hallucination


News events suggest this possible Onion headline, if the Onion wants to use it:

Bin Laden Killed!
President Orders Flags Flown At 3/2 Staff

(And right after the flags are raised to 3/2 staff, they fly, fly away.... USA! USA!)


Orgasms = Origination Of Organisms


I have no reason to live anymore. I'm just using up resources, and I have no purpose or anything to live for or to look forward to.

But I don't want to kill myself.

Let's just say that I won't be getting any colonoscopies anytime soon, exactly, though.


Poem! Written two days ago.

Our Felonious Gods

Our felonious gods --
Our minds are the truncation
of matter, matter made
From images of dreams.
But anger is our love,
And love is but zigzags
and absurdity thus
Certain. Therefore,
hatred remains the very edifice
Of our superstitious criminality.
But we
Think of our adoration
for our own pride. Yes,
We adore those evil saints,
adore those vile
Truths never purposeful.
Ha, our felonious gods
Tell us of their own
(faulty) grandeur. And they
Threaten us with their
unacceptable extroversion.
Ah, their damnation is ours.
And our punishment
Is only horrid; yet we
are defiant of these
Mathematical tantrums.
We are to curse
This reality and betray
its libido. We are
To apathetically conjure
each injustice, conjure
Our entire cosmos from
such theses, from such
Atrocities of our wills
and their convincing.