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.



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