Saturday, July 30, 2011

Oh, Been Abysmal

Blog post # 216:
(216 = 2*2*2*3*3*3 = 6*6*6,
The Beast!.)

Almost A Fulcrum

Burned By Rot

Unremembered Fission


Anagrams, if you can call them that:

Oh, been abysmal.
shabby lame one

(That refers to me, I guess.)


I mental-sag
as a melting.


If humanity devolves because we lose our BO, this would be the...
de-scent of mankind.

(Ugg, super-ugg.)

Damn it, oh, damn it, I'm depressed.
First, I have a sense of doom about the future (starting with the almost inevitable default by the US government in a couple days, continuing with SO MUCH MORE horrible things happening over the near and far futures).

Then, on top of that, I am depressed because my life is basically worthless -- worthless both to society and to myself. I USED to have dreams for the future, but now I don't even have the desire or the ability to fulfill any of them. I used to think I was so amazing, that I had so many talents and potential. Now, I know that I am nothing but a failure. Even most losers have more to show for their lives than I do. At least they have shitty jobs and ugly significant-others. But me? Not even.

I know I've told you all this before. And I know it is getting quite old. But I can't even come up with a better thing to write about in my blog, I am such a failure. And, damn it, what am I supposed to do about it? No one I talk to is much help. Or I won't allow them to help me, is more like it, because I am too lazy to do anything about my situation.

And the coming collapse for all of humanity doesn't help things either, since I couldn't do anything about that even if I wasn't lazy.

I wish people -- including me, and especially those in power -- would just STOP BEING SO STUPID!

I mean, is there any reason to not be lazy anymore if we are all going to burn up from climate-change or nuclear war anyway?

I don't know. Maybe my lack of knowledge of the future is part of my problem, though it definitely isn't all of it.


Poem, written yesterday:
(This poem is highly unoriginal. But it fits in with my mood, given the coming collapse.)

Damned Reality

This damned reality is
quite a hellish blob.
It expands and transects,
then it engulfs me.
Thus it is my dream
and its froth. It is
The vile imagination of
such meaning, of such
meaninglessness endured.
For, into
That molten steam,
we are singed and
Viciously unremembered.
But our hatred
Encloses us within
its fission. It burns
Our truth, yet
we still rot. Ah, damned
Is our sanctum
once conjured from purpose.
But now we do protrude
unto our punishment.
Ah, soon we will be
only apathetic and
Countered. Soon
we will fail in our triumphs;
We will fail in our sorrow;
we will fail in our
redemption never gained.



Wednesday, July 27, 2011

How Is Such A Wad?

Blog post # 215:
(215 = 5*43.)

Illusion's Suffering

Psychotic Remorse

Quadrupled Glow

Elsewhere Sideways

(Ho hum)

A loving anagram:

My Dear


An anagram puzzle:

Yes, wad is...
(1 word)

(Answer in comments.)


Any of lots of different places is...


If you design arches with interesting surfaces, you engage in...


Two poems, written yesterday and today:

Failed Translucency

Withered so are
the quadrupled annuli. They
Paraphrase quite a
butterfly-like paradox. And
They each drip from
their topsides unequally. They
Drip the waters of
imagined pus, of mentality.
Oh, they form every fourth
of those two wings.
But their asymmetry is
tangential yet only
Yes, this thing
does not fly, nor
Does it glow.
However, it is inert and
Intended by my own stupidity.
Ah, it is indeed
Beautiful and superstitious
within its withering,
Within its
poetic counterbalance of such
Glass, of such colorful loops
conjoined into a
Doubling of doubling,
conjoined into a
Failed translucency
we do dream, that we do
Draw quite expectedly
upon this secreted light.


Within The Underside Of Everything

External to a spheroid
of oblate sidewaysness,
A spiral hovers parallel
and rightward. But
It too is vertical, is gaping.
And the whole
Of it forgets its whole;
it forgets the void
Between spiral and spheroid.
And it foregoes
That lavender for its mauve,
for its coil
Afloat and ironic
and smooth. Ah, yet
Within the
underside of everything, this
Composition is angled
and ascending. It
Holds its stillness there
in such reality.
And it wraps emptiness with
such droplets
Of knotted poetry.
Oh, externally, the
Spiral flies and is
surely levitated unto
Horizontality's massiveness.
Although it is
Curved and crescentic
and known by our sight; it
Is known by the existence
beneath entirety, by
The existences endured
and above us elsewhere.



Sunday, July 24, 2011

A Tangled Nightmare

Blog post # 214:
(214 = 2*107.)

Depletion Of Meaninglessness

Incorrectly Spilled

Tangled Virtue


Anagrams return! (at least temporarily)

Looping Or Wrung
Our Long/Wrong Pi


Trance's Nexus
Scan next ruse.


Untangle Shreds
Lengths Asunder


I tangle.
A Tingle

(That last one is dirty. Snicker, snicker.)


I am becoming more and more convinced that "reality" is only an illusion. How could it not be?
Everything is so horrible. Reality must just be some kind of joke.
There is no balance between good and evil in this world. No, evil predominates greatly. So, it all seems to me to be only a drama, a computer-controlled dream.

But still, I am concerned about the outcome of that dream/drama, as if all is actually real.
Should I put my energies into waking up instead of into trying to make the world a better place, since the world probably doesn't exist anyway?

Not that I invest much energy in making this world a better place, anyway.


Two poems, written 2 days ago and yesterday:

Almost The Strangest Of Cones

Imagination tapers to a
rightward apex. Stupidly,
Its underside is billowy
and bulbous. But its top
Is of flaps and illusions.
Ah, and both its bottom
And topside converge
therefore thusly -- yet in that
Point, all suddenness is foreseen,
yes. Yes, in that
Animosity coursing
against nothingness, all truncation
Is our abstinence, is
our dreams resented but
Never remembered.
For, imagination is surely
A narrowing thing,
almost the strangest of cones.
Otherwise, it is
narcissistic and meaningless, although
It is wrongly alphabetized
and correctly made sad.
Oh, the cusp is
thin and flat, but still
It widens unto the left.
However, it does not
Express its explosiveness.
Ah, it only becomes
Truthful then tempting,
then it tempers its
Triangularity; then it
transforms and remains halved;
Then it remains equal to
such clumping, equal to such
Plagiarism justifiably derived
from its own depletion.


Askew And Diagonally Wrong

A vile blob -- it rests askew
and is diagonally wrong
Above this angry void.
It tapers unto its pinching,
Rendering that flow
downwardly, rightward, away.
And the fluid spreads
upon such emptiness, becoming
Outward and beautiful.
But that beauty is evil.
It is vile, as a blob,
and an ellipsoid above.
Yet, into the substances
conveyed, all
Incorrectly spilled drink
is formed from quite a lobe.
Yes, from quite a tumor,
our human sap
Drips sideways and
distantly, betraying the
Orthogonality otherwise
nonconforming. Ah,
Dripping obliquely, such
syrup is drowned, is drawn as
It was, is drawn as
our tangled cliches now
Untied, now linear,
now vile and hateful and
Untrue but surely adored,
but surely moronically so.



Thursday, July 21, 2011

Superfluously Dull

Blog post # 213:
(213 = 3*71.)

Improbability Untied

Mismatched Equilibrium

Dull Excretion

Conjured Thirst


No anagrams today! I'm sick of anagrams. Maybe I'll post some later, but maybe not.

A new poll!

As most of you might know, my blog is evolving. Some things I used to do in it I don't do anymore.

Which of these do you miss the most from what used to be in my blog?

Word Puzzles
Math Puzzles

I'll try to bring back, at least on occasion, whatever wins this poll.


Two poems, both just barely acceptable. Written yesterday and today.

A Sphere Atypically Spherical

Such a sphere is
atypically spherical. Ah, it
Is quite a glob, surely.
But its loxodromes are
Specious, and its
circumferences are round. Oh,
In its quadrants, the
arcs are misnumbered but
Differing. And they are
counted incorrectly, yet
Still they are irradiant
from this one apex
Upon the lower-right.
And, yes, those arcs spread
Unto their vanishing,
unto their inequalities
Within a sphere betrayed.
Oh, such a sphere is
Forgotten regarding its
amorphousness. For, its
Shape is neither
cylindrical nor pitied. Oddly,
It does curve throughout
its mismatched fourths,
And then it is balanced.
Then, again,
It is atypically spherical.
And it remains.
And it returns, but only
convexly, but only
Into its circularity
fleeting superfluous.


Counterintuitive Within This Gash

Cut with dullness,
that groove is quite
A beautiful wound.
It is sliced into this
Spheroid, and it is
grotesque in its inwardness.
For, those knives are
only slabs, but
They are also thorns
of our thirst. Thus,
They sever all
blubbery convexity with
Such meaninglessness.
And then they are to
Yet be dull; then
they are to secrete
The pus of their
uncertainty, of their
Stupidity surely askew
but never vain.

Cut with flatness protruding
into insignificance,
The bulb is conjoined
with a disk, is conjoined
With glass and its shards
rendered diagonally. But
Vertically, yes,
the knives do coil and curve,
Then they rest and ooze,
and still they
Are dull. Still,
they are counterintuitive
Within this gash,
within the conjuring of
Juices and lipids extracted
and resented, within
The conquering of
a spheroid once dull, once
Stained and obtuse
or obviously satiated.



Monday, July 18, 2011

As A Nightmare May

Blog post # 212:
(212 = 2*53*2.)

Sans Cylinders

Encircled By Semicircles

Syrupy Invocation

Dream Of Anagrams


Speaking of anagrams...

I breathe scent in -- ...
entices the brain.


Flying so now...
of only wings.


I hate my anagrams!...
as a nightmare may.


A smart redneck is an...


Poll results!

Which would you rather eat right now?

The winner is "Pie", with 6 votes.
"Bacon" received 2 votes.
"Vegan burrito" and "Cheese" received no votes.

Thanks for voting.


Poem, written yesterday.

An Odd Hippocampus

An odd hippocampus
knots its arc through this
Ambiguous space. And
it bends quite conformingly
Unto retrograde and reniform
thoughts, unto such
Memories of helices and their
Cater-cornered emotions
all spiraled.

But before it and beyond it,
a second thing of
Substantive curving
convulses and seizes and
Then does envelop
my dissected mind.

Oh, yet in my
odd hippocampus, I am illiterate,
But illegitimately so, yes.
Here, I taper
And tangle and do invoke
that cloth of madness.
Yes, here I invoke
that asininity of
My own sleep. .....
Still, my brain is
Segmented but
encircled by semicircles.
Ha, it is surely to float and fly
And yet descend.
Still, it is to betray its
Very imbecility;
it is to betray its corpus callosum
And its beauty. It is
to transit its syrupy shards
Anew, then be severed
then be parabolically attune to,
And paradoxically proud of,
its crescents; it is to
Again intend the
vanquishing of its innards,
Its saddened innards
imperviously mislead.



Friday, July 15, 2011

As The Winding Strings

Blog post # 211:
(211 = a prime.)

Uglily Detached

Progression Of Temporariness

Amplitudes Of Such Breath

(My favorite is the middle one,
"Progression Of Temporariness".)



Ah, twisting rings' ends...
as the winding strings.


Fight us.
fist hug


I grasp
as grip.

(The last two anagrams are too simple.)


Three poems; written over these last three days:

Duality Made Disgusting

Within the wad of strips
and strands, of
Loops and arcs all finite
but truncated,
These globes and lobes
imagine their loxodromes.
Yes, they imagine their
minds thinking
Of brains, thinking
of paradoxes each
Asinine. And within
this billowing blob
Of elongation foreshortened,
there is a truth
Regarding a tapered spiral
afloat upon the
Upper-left. But
this spiral is almost a
Torus, and it is always
a semi-torus. Yet
It hovers there so as to
hold its arrangement.
Yes, it penetrates via
its detachment. Although
It does levitate via
its conjunction. And
Within it is the wad,
if just partially. Yes,
Against the hollowness
of convergence, this
Spiral and wad uglily gape,
and they are
Grasped by their lacking,
by their descent
And its determined imbalance,
and its duality
Made disgusting,
made from nonsense's
Absurdly asymmetrical constituents.


Spiral Of Incomplete Shapes

The spiral of incomplete shapes
transforms and then
Transits from arcs to corners
unto jutting convergence.
It turns sideways, clockwise,
lengthwise into
Its squarishness.
And yet it is of semicircles,
Perhaps partly;
yet it is triangular and thus
Is hexagonal.
It becomes the spiral of this
Progression. And
it is perpendicular and
Weird and ugly, yes.
But such a coil is made
From these segments
narrowing repeatedly.
It does suffice,
but it does not suffer
Any of our algorithms.
Ah, the spiral is incomplete,
Although it is infinite,
although it is methodical
And contained by that
temporariness, is contained by
That permanency of its
malformed whole, by the
Permanency of its misaligned sums
and their polygons
Somehow swirling.


Outwardly Explosive

Outwardly, upwardly,
downwardly, thus leftward, an
Explosive rupture
spites such containment. And it
Is flung from that disk,
from that flower; it is
Flung and is still knotted
as these fumes,
As this gaseous fire
of matter surely strung,
Surely stinging.
And outwardly, the flames are
Tangential but not timid.
No, they are
Frustrated not by
their poetry, ah. Oh,
These ignorant amplitudes
of coarse breath,
They heatedly are forced
from that calm,
From that inertia of
our solitude. And
They are amorphously spun
and are all
Quite a dangerous syrup.
But our beautiful anger
Only protrudes outwardly;
it is protruding
Throughout the exterior
of space and
Its dimensions,
is protruding throughout the
Receptive void beyond it,
beyond what
Is within this flow --
outwardly, yes, and
Frothily vile,
and chaotically projected,
And chaotically accentuated
but heard.


I must learn to be more discerning. I have posted almost every poem I have written in the last week.

That's bad.



Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Beneath That Spiral

Blog post # 210:
(210 = 2*3*5*7,
the product of the first four primes.)

Superlative Inferiority

Narcissistic Eclipse

Penetrated By Curving


Today's (crappy) anagrams:

Awe Of Droplets
Water's Flop Ode


Lost Annulus
Out, Sans, Null


As a loop's circles,...
oracle coils pass.


Two poems:
(Written yesterday and today.)

Beneath That Spiral
And Atop The Cube

Before that cube,
a spiral of straps (each
Turned and wrung)
is prominent there. But
It is of illicit colors
and of illegitimate
Alignments (all
surely swirling). And beyond,
Ha, the cube's corner is
within us. Yet its
Other corner defies
such stagnancy. And it
Flees from us as
the transparent thorn.

Yes, the spike between,
it is glassy, and
Still it is unobvious.
Oh, it is held beneath
That spiral and
atop the cube. But it is
Also quite a cone formed
from eclipses, eclipses
Of outstretched moons
strung as straps
Each turned, wrung,
and failed (as I). Then
The cube is incorrect,
despite its perfection.
Then the spiral is
maligned but mathematical.
And then the cusp does
hate its own pride.

So, the triad is not sideways,
and it is
Never configured. Ah,
it is thus methodical.
And it is consequently incomplete
if unfractured.
It is tangentially of
our superlative inferiority,
True. Yet it is needlessly
unexceptional via
Its unredeemed function
of lonely narcissism.


Surrounding Roundness
Of Hemispheres

Two rightward hemispheres
and a third leftward,
They are of two and one opposed;
they are of such
Segmented lobes
lying consecutively and contained.
And they each are only
a fourth of a globe. But
Perhaps they are halved.
Perhaps they are indeed
Elliptical and violently so.
Oh, they mass unto
Their grouping made from three.
And enshrouding
Them quite is a helix of string,
of encirclement.

Yet upon the diagonality of
this air, those
Hemispheres do not flee.
No, they are penetrated
By their curving,
and they penetrate
The twine about them.
And, yes, they have been
Successive held within
all translucency, within
The arc drawn into
their exterior, into the
Surrounding roundness
of hemispheres, hemispheres
Unlike themselves,
differing and conforming,
Attached and multiplicative,
and yet improper.



Sunday, July 10, 2011


Blog post # 209:
(209 = 11*19.)

Wrongness Undermined

Imagined Thought

Unlikely Ambivalence


Today's anagrams (Yay!):

My naive but lost reality...
is ambivalently true toy.


Conjunctions need ties.
joins, unites, connected


Poll question:

Which would you rather eat right now?

Vegan Burrito

(I think I will only have this poll up for one week, not two.)

Poem, written yesterday:

Bent Ring

Obtusely, the ring
of an annulus of a
Torus thinly circular,
it bends upon
That diameter, upon
that circumference
Devoid of pi.
And it abruptly is angular
And weird, despite
its vagueness, despite
Its unusualness and
intermediacy. Oh, this
Crooked ring is made
from wire, from its
It is formed within
such trigonometry,
Within such
roundness spited.

And it turns unto
its transition, unto
That bent oneness
now self-differing.
However, it does
relinquish those ellipses
And their flatnesses.
Ah, it becomes diagonal
And then resumes
its horizontality. Yes,
It bends suddenly
but twice, then is
Existentially halved.
Then it is exceptional
And unbalanced and
is damned by its virtue,
And it is drawn by
its halting, by its
Wrongness undermined
yet unlikely.



Friday, July 8, 2011

I Turn So

Blog post # 208:
(208 = 2*2*13*2*2.)

(Not too proud of these four pictures. Sorry.)

Anomalous Sphere

Uneven Abruptness

Of Nonexistence's Equations

Malignant Drowning



My time arcs.


I turn so...
in torus.

(A torus is a doughnut shape.)


Weirdo and the nag
We are an odd thing.


A nautilus wet, minced, torn
in salted water continuum


Another word for 'circumference' =


Two poems, written the day before yesterday and today:

The Third-Paraboloid

The third-paraboloid does not gape.
No, it is held
By the floor and is undermined
via the saber,
Via the rod, a knife,
a bent blade once
Horizontal and then vertical
unto its thorn.

And the third-paraboloid is
of glass but not
Of shards. Nor is it of
smoothness, aside from
Its entirety. Oh,
its flatness descends and its
Roundness rises.
Although its truncation is
Seen amongst such obscuration.
Yes, the
Third-paraboloid is
not hollow or whole.
But it demeans neither
annuli nor spheres.
Ah, its flesh is cut and
its skin is unreal.
And its shadows are
finite and fluidic. Yes,
This halted cone-like thing
is so severed and
Is so voided. However,
its amplitudes are not
Of pus. No, its magnification is
angular and
Yet flat. Then it seeps of circles
and sleeps
Of its matter only partly bulging,
Only partially anomalous.


A Fanged Nautilus

A fanged nautilus endangers us
with its beauty. And
It holds within its coil
those teeth that cut us,
That despise us and our magic.
Ah, this spiral
Is both round and sharp.
Yet its mouth is
Somehow smooth but
abruptly so. Yes, the
Fanged nautilus penetrates
within its existence and
And it tastes such spinning,
tastes such
Carnivorousness, quite.
Ha, it licks the liquid
Of its drowning.
Although it chews the
Anger of its violence,
of its villainy. Yes,
That fanged nautilus
punctures our pain, and
It vanquishes our void.
It is curved and
Jutting; it is
strangely of its shards.
It is weird, as the
suffering it demands; it is
Weird, as the
superstition it implies and
Then grotesquely exceeds.
And then, ha, it
dichotomously rotates, protrudes,
Despite its malignant evocation.



Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Ovals Are

Blog post # 207:
(207 = 3*23*3.)

Paradox Of Failure

Mind Unforeseen

Unrealistically Cater-Cornered

Algorithmic Amber

(I like "Mind Unforeseen" and "Algorithmic Amber" best.)

The anagrams for today:

Okay, as circles woke me;...
yes, see, I am a clockwork.


As a lover,
ovals are.


Poll results:

Estimate your own IQ:

1 person said his/her IQ was between 86 and 115.
3 people said their IQs were between 116 and 150.
And 1 person said his/her IQ was greater than 175.

(Hmmm... I doubt that last person was being very honest. Oh, well.)

No one said their IQs were less than 50, between 50 and 85, or between 151 and 175.


Two poems today. (Yowza.)

(Written yesterday and today. The first is a better poem, in my opinion.)

As In This Egg

As in this egg, in this sac,
within this yolk
Of amber sap
becoming such a fetus of
Its forgotten mind, oh;
that flower descends
And is wrung inside
its looping. But the egg
Is oddly spherical,
and it is a droplet yet
And it is an orb of
its sufficiency, yes; but
It impedes its
crescentic ascent, ha. Yes, it
Is to be the
very counterintuition of
Infantile failures each beloved,
is to be the
Very paradoxes of this
honey we never suffer.

Oh, as in this egg,
that algorithm of biology
Is our pondering;
it is our containment
Inside a faulty truth
within an eggshell,
Within the solitude of
our stupidity, within
The loneliness of
our incorrect malignity
Therefore tasty,
therefore alive.


Cater-Cornered Strangeness

Art-deco stalactites
drop twice from this rod.
And they enforce their
doubling quite singular,
Quite halved. Yet
unto the left, a tapered loop
Is held upon that endpoint.
And it is thin but
Wide; it is devoid of its
opaqueness, yes; but
It surely is an oval
of excretion, of air.
Ah, it surely is as the rod
within its existence.
They both rise sideways
unto those cusps.
They both are metallic
and rested and not
Of spirals. Oh,
from such stalactites, the
Loops endure our negations.
But again
They are cones and spikes
within us. Yes,
Again, these things are
contradicted via
Their cater-cornered
strangeness, via the
Obliqueness of cylinders
each overlapping,
Each art-deco and
unrealistically encrusted.



Sunday, July 3, 2011

Ah, Spirals Were

Blog post # 206:
(206 = 103*2.)

Just two pictures today. All the other pictures I have made since I last posted suck.

Inconsistent Awkwardness

Both Edible And Carnivorous



Ah, spirals were...
a sphere, a swirl.


So, still, I am science.
Coil is lemniscates.

(My least favorite of these three anagrams.)

Oh, knife's peace;
he pokes in face.


Poem, written yesterday:

Retrograde Ellipses

Of the progression inwardly
unto such minimization,
The ellipses turn clockwise
then counterclockwise
Then clockwise. They
emerge until they vanish.
They spin until
they reverse until they
Resume, until they
are unreal and unmade.

Yet their massivenesses
and orientations
Align via algorithms
of exception. But the
Ellipses are equal to
rings uglily colorful.
Yes, they are rotational,
and still they
Decline; still they
depart from their
Consistency, and
do so consistently. Oh,
The progression of ellipses
is vindicated by
Its irregularity
always temporary.
But its lengths are
determined, and its
Angles are equilateral.
And, yes, it
Suffers its accuracies
but not its
Actualities. For, it does
occur awkwardly inward;
And then it remains;
then it extends
Weirdly, roundly,
ambiguously. And, truly, it is
Wrung through such
transitions of perfection's
Periodicity, through
such transpositions
Of spuriousness' faultlessness.