Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Wretched Futility

Blog post # 225:
(225 = 3*5*5*3 = 15*15.)

Strangely External

Vindictive Temptation

Defiance Refuted


An anagram:

Cylinders coil.
Ids only circle.


Two poems, written yesterday and today:

Asinine Death

Death is weirdly wrapped
about my torment.
And its evil dream encases me,
permeates me.
But I will soon die and fail.
I will be
Vanquished from all
transcendence. Yet
Asinine death will be
my violation. In this
Rape, I will be eviscerated
by every obscenity.
And virtue will betray me,
quite. Death,
However, will be
my enslavement. It is
To become its hatred
for me, for us. And
It will destroy us
and our purposes, yes.
Oh, death is the victor
of our destiny.
It is the damnation
we fear and the
Futility we vindicate.
Ah, death is
Its sicknesses and its poisons
each implied
By the extremes of
our ignorance. And its
Triumphs are eternal;
its temptations
Are fluid within our corpses;
its injustices
Are insistent and hideous
and nihilistically rotten.


Wretched Geometries

Wretched geometries
enshroud my thoughts,
Then they puncture me sadly.
But they demand
My fear, and they
deceive my suffering.
Yet in their negation,
they are conjured.
But such shapes never
refute their denial.
They surely endure
that calm, however. Ah,
Those wretched geometries
are my suicide.
They are my
meaninglessness maligned. Yes,
I am only inferior within them.
I am
Their illusion and
their stupidity both
Soon to repulse me
amorphously, defiantly.



Sunday, August 28, 2011

Wondrous Condemnation

Blog post # 224:
(224 = 2*2*2*2*2*7.)

Themselves Almost Stale

Worsening Godliness

Haunting Obliviousness

Narcissistic Minima


No anagrams today.
I do have poll-results, though.

Question: Which of these do you hate most?

"Injustice" wins with 5 votes.
"Deception" comes in next with 3 votes.
"Stupidity" gets 1 vote.
"Crookedness", "Disease", "Bad Luck", "Violence", and "Hatred" each get 0 votes.


Two poems today, written yesterday and today.

Of The Oculus With Occlusion

It is not an eye
within this sphere. It is
A hole of colors
all descending beneath it.
And before that egg-like thing,
a smaller sphere
Of transparent glossiness
hovers upon the right.
But it too obscures
such imagination. It too is
The eclipse of
ambiguous haunting. Oh, inside
All juxtaposition of
the oculus with occlusion,
Never are these paradoxes
to invoke their illusion.
But the geometry itself
is misinterpreted, yes.
And it is not an eye,
yet it is seen again
By its own vantage.
Ah, in the purple
And yellow and cyan,
this conjugation is
Formed from its obliviousness.
But it remains
Blind and asleep, quite.
And it becomes such a
Wound of our swirling,
becomes such a gash
Of our utmost observation.


Of Our Condemnation

Of our condemnation,
we are quiet and despised.
Oh, in our hateful annihilation,
we will be
The very evil we suffer.
Yet our ignorance and
Atrocity is the damnation
we are to excrete.
Yes, of our condemnation,
we vanish within
Such minima. And
that evil is to become
A dream of falsehoods
and their
We have been cursed
From the sins of
our tormentors. Thus
We are surely to die
in blindness and horror.
We are to be destroyed
by that unjust resentment.
And we are to be
murdered by the idiocy
Of all minds.
We are then to be
Condemned, are then
to be but only bigots,
Are to be but only fools
of this narcissism
We concede to our
unworthiness itself incapable.



Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Coming Hell

Blog post # 223:
(223 = a prime, maybe.)

Illusion Of A Curlicue

Imprecise Nuance

Something Intermediate

Insistent Poison

Extroversion Invoked


No anagrams or poetry today. Screw that.

My mood is better. But I still feel hopeless whenever I have small moments of sanity.
This is the fact: Either you are totally depressed and anxious, or you are totally psychotic.
Anyone with any intelligence at all and who knows the facts has NO hope for our future.
We ARE doomed.

Well, the most evil people amongst us aren't doomed. They will do quite well, thank you.

But anyone with any sense of justice will be rounded up and tortured in the coming world.

Society has already achieved a dystopian state, I know. (With the bad economy, overreaching surveillance, wars based on lies, mass-stupidity, grave injustices, nuclear accidents, etc, etc.) But things are about to get much worse, infinitely worse.

Then we will all kill ourselves, and then go to Hell for doing so.



Friday, August 19, 2011


Blog post # 222:
(222 = 2*37*3.)

Madness Withheld

Pathos Secreted

Inflected Levitation

Radioactive Tangle

Concavity Unremembered

(You can tell I was depressed when I made these, probably.)


Only one anagram today:

Plural I times.
As multiplier


I woke up last night freaked out and crying (and I am not one to cry).
I know there is no hope for the future. Things will only get worse and worse and worse.

The economy will totally collapse (it has just begun to). Climate-change will reach its tipping-point. There will be more wars based on lies. There will be more terrorism (also based on lies). There will be unprecedented disease and famines. There will be super-surveillance and mind-control. We will run out of energy. Fascism and genocide will run rampant world-wide.

Here in the US, the best we can hope for is that Obama is reelected, which is horrible because he has been almost as bad as Bush in so many ways. But almost all the Republicans running for president would be INFINITELY worse than GW Bush as president. Many of them would impose a far-right theocracy in America, where homosexuals and children who talk back to their parents and people who cuss are rounded up and killed. For certain, progressives (and atheists and and Muslims and Jews who don't convert to evangelical Christianity) will be literally rounded up and done away with. But Obama has pissed off so many Americans, I think ANYONE could beat him, no matter how frightening and evil they are.

I have no hope.


Poem, written today:

In The Concavity Of My Sadness

Inside the eclipse, inside
this ellipsoidal illusion
Of cones and circles and space,
there, a partiality
Is transcendent but hopeless.
And I too am
Empty. I too fear
the inevitability of an
Asinine fate.
For, inside that glob of void
And glassy superstitions,
I am withheld; I am
Afloat within such amnesia,
within such
Determinism. Oh,
inside the shadows each
Inept, I dwell
in the concavity of
My sadness.
And here I am oblivious but
Mentally afraid.
Yet in my stranding, I endure
The geometries.
Yet in my strangeness, I
Perish and then am uncertain;
then I hide
Inside an eclipse unremembered,
thus drowned,
Thus hated.



Sunday, August 14, 2011

Fatal Becoming

Blog post # 221:
(221 = 13*17.)

Audaciously Unidirectional

Unsubstantially Massive

Fatalism Slanted

Sad Grandiosity



Spit rays
It sprays.


Turning a cool wicked screw
Drawing counterclockwise


Mortal stone shouts hate...
as lost hot meteor haunts.


Two poems, written yesterday and today.
The second one ("Unobtained Butterfly") reflects the way I feel today.

Fiery Stone

Slanted, the fiery stone
is mortal. Yet
It fulfills its thunder,
and it fails its
But its explosion is eternal.
And its hatred is whole.
It flows, yes, from
The upper-left unto
such slanting, unto such
Tilted space.

And it is implied by
its oneness. For, as that
Spherical truth, it is
both dangerous and endangered.
But it slants, ha,
within its descent, within
Its fall otherwise entwined.
However, it is quite
Unequal to its own inertia.
Yet its poison
Is this damnation;
it is this injustice becoming
All fate, becoming
all fatality of sorrow and
Flame and forcefulness
thus made in these
Geometries' fantastic colliding.


Unobtained Butterfly

Death implies its psychoses.
It encircles and retakes
Our sorrow, yet it becomes it.
And death has
Rendered this larva
amongst a sad cocoon as
Nothing. Surely, death
has denied the bug its beauty
Otherwise to be.
Ah, the butterfly is nonexistent,
Yes. And its abstinence
is its loss. For, never
Are such wings to
transcend their grandness.
Never is the redemption
of this insect to
Obtain its realization.
No, the caterpillar has died.
And its silk and sickness
are its only solace.
Perhaps that lepidopteran
was to achieve its
Godliness. But it failed.
Yes, it has unjustifiably
Been betrayed by
its mortality. It has wrongly
Been frustrated by its fate,
despite its irradiance,
Despite its apparition
almost its destiny. And
It is of emptiness now, quite.
It is but finite
And diminished and
demented and tritely lacking
In its sleep; it is lacking
in its dreams forgotten,
In its life unexpressed
and viciously stilled.



Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Perpendicular Globs Slide

Blog post # 220:
(220 = 2*11*5*2.)

Geometry Undergone

Partway Irreconcilable

Counterclockwise Archetype


The anagram for today:

Perpendicular globs slide.
Or spilled cube angles drip.



Which of these do you hate most?:

Bad Luck


Or maybe you hate my poetry most!

One poem, written today:

Violent Semicircle

Halved is this
irradiant process:
Unto only the right.
And it is a violent
Semicircle; truly. But
its globs are projected
As such injustice, as
such hatred wronged by
Everything. Oh,
that imbalance is divisive
And imagined, yes.
Yet its gloss is made from
Crescents, from archetypes.
It is propelled
In severed rotation partway
and thus
Sideways and therefore
weirdly but uglily.

Halved is this spray,
is this spit of quite
An explosive crookedness.
Then it flees
Into counterclockwise
nonexistence, ha.
It flies very
asymmetrically, and so
It is bent by its
unusualness. And so
It is lost to its reality;
it is lost
To its inequalities
each protruding
Divergently and
irreconcilably as these
Finite hemispheres
of our differing,
Of our careless biases
(maybe halved).



Monday, August 8, 2011


Blog post # 219:
(219 = 3*73.)

Intermediate Maximum

This Hemispherical Sorrow

Dreams Of Circumferences

Deprived Of Denial


One anagram today:

Our Dissection
Is cut or is done.


In a much earlier post, I ranted about why I don't want to wear glasses, even though I need to.

But why should I indeed wear glasses anyway?

Because if you are a "four-eyes", then you can...
.. four-see.. things..

(Har har)

I am not philosophical anymore. When I was younger, I would contemplate everything from the nature of reality and dreams to mathematics. But now my thoughts are dead. Am I mindless as a result of age, or maybe because of the (legal) pharmaceuticals I take, or for some other reason?

In any case, I cannot impress you all with anything important to say today, despite that at least a couple of you want me to post more philosophies.
Maybe in later posts, hopefully soon, I won't be so numb in the brain.

But now, I am oblivious.
Now, I do not ponder.


Poetry! Two poems, written 2 days ago and yesterday.

Its Underside Toppled

Of prongs and flaps,
an oversized underside is
Fluidly flung; and it is
wrapped and warped, but it is
Intermediately edgewise,
but it is internally horizontal,
But it is violently unusual
aside from its nonexistent
Whole. Ah, and of that
spiky spiral, this uncertainty
Is not knotted.
But it is overlapped and
Weirdly beautiful
and beautifully wired although
Uglily strung. Ha,
these prongs and flaps
Do intersect and flow,
thus being curvilinear
And incorrect within
their maxima, within
Their minima all arcing.
However, the
Hemisphere is
gaping and gouged. And its
Putridity is its rust.
Yet it glistens never, but
Still it is corrosive.
For, its coarse smoothness
Is its violation;
it is its underside toppled
Then enclosed by such rot,
then enclosed by such
Poisoned suddenness
of prongs and flaps elsewhere
Becoming thorns,
elsewhere betraying that loss,
Betraying that dull disintegration.


Annulus Of A Weird Hole

An annulus of a weird hole
-- a hole rotated, round,
Oddly placed and shaped --
it punctures that oval,
And it penetrates
that stupid disk of such
Frustrating dreams.
But the ring is unequal
To its gap. Oh, I saw it
in the alphabetization
Of cylinders. Quite, ha.
Yet the annulus is
Undescribed and unbeautiful.
Its ugliness,
However, is fantastic.
And its strangeness is
Both opaque and transparent.
Yes, it is both
Elliptical and curved
but never equilateral.
Thus, it intrigues my
random forethoughts (all
Forgotten) with this
misalignment. But I
Ignore its unresponsiveness.
I do ignore its
Coincidental hole,
ignore that circumference of
Its lacking. I ignore the
weirdness of an annulus;
Although it transcends
such nonexistence and becomes
An impressive loop,
a loop rotated, round,
Oddly placed and shaped,
oddly and awkwardly actual,
Awkwardly angular,
actually distinctive
But not drawn of
metal or water or suddenness.



Friday, August 5, 2011


Blog post # 218:
(218 = 2*109.)

I will make you all suffer with this dreadful post.

Plurally Reverberant

Mathematics Not Numbered

Otherwise Not Wrung

Parabolic But Folded


Speaking of ugg. Get this!...

After you pass-away , you go to a greater...


(Speaking of speaking of stuff...)

Speaking of dimensions,

"Dimension" is an anagram of "mini-nodes".

More crappy anagrams:

Sad when wetting real flowers...
and sweltering weather flows.


Okay, why diminish her?
Oh, hey, I shrink midway.


To turn as hope
Oh, rotate, spun


Poll results!

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

8 votes total:
Puns/word-play wins with 3 votes.
Philosophy gets 2 votes.
Anagrams and math puzzles each get one vote.
Politics and word puzzles each get no votes.

(I'm kind of shocked that math puzzles beat word puzzles, even if just by one vote.)


Two poems: Written 3 days ago and 2 days ago.

Contraction Of Contradiction

The contraction of
contradiction (un-contradicted)
Diminishes, and it yet is absurd,
and it yet is
Abstract, and it yet is
un-rotated but still made, but
Still identical to its sequence,
to its sphericalness
Oddly illusory and algorithmic.
It is surely dampened
Regarding such valuations.
And it is damned
Regarding its positioning.
But that isosceles blob
Does billow. It does
truncate all procession
Inwardly against a vain finitude.

Oh, the lengthwise roundness
of this multiplication,
It is both encircled and
paraphrased. Although
Such words are exact
and condensed. Yes,
They shrink upwardly
but not leftward.
And they curve unto
the corner of triads.
Oh, quite, they coil and
are not spiraled. Quite,
Each meaningless trapezoid
is drawn within,
And each thought is
drawn again into
Its reverberation
coursing beautifully
So as to be that
equation of inequality, that
Equation of etceteras
implied but explicitly plural.


Inside Every Sideways Mistakenness

I forewent such games
of spectra, of numerals
Without number, of numbers
yet counted. And
I did not anger my imagination
with these grids
We frustrate and
strategically embed. But, yes,
I did embed those games
in their completion. And
Then I multiplied by
consistency and continuation.
Then I summed by
rows and their rotation.
Ah, I then enumerated
that depiction of
Abrupt existences.
But the games are
Still to be drawn. And
they are devoid of
Insanity's permutations.
They are configured again
Into dreams, and the dreams
are contained inside
Every sideways mistakenness
of this conformity,
Inside anew any
sideways mistakenness
Of this placement upon all,
of this peculiarity
Elsewhere mathematical
but never trigonometric,
But never incorrectly delusional,
never wrongly



Monday, August 1, 2011

Isosceles Things

Blog post # 217:
(217 = 7*31.)

Coarse Divergence

Repellent Inclusion



A couple of anagrams:

Dire poison ends.
Do depression in.

(This one is grim.)


I hid or enclosed.
Hold inside core.


Two poems, written yesterday and today:

Eradicated Cone

An eradicated cone
flees from itself, becoming and
Betraying its centrifuge
with the subterfuge of
That repellant disintegration.
Such matter
Distances its truth from
its reality. And it
Fulfills its inadequacy, quite,
then it dissolves
Coarsely and
very divergently. Then it
Is eradicated and made
inconsistent. Yet its
Chunks are freed and
its blood is massive.
And this amnesia of cones
is forgotten, although
It is severed and segmented
so as to exist.

But that flow of
substances outwardly is
Correctly wrong.
It behaves abruptly, and it
Despises all inertia.
Oh, the cone is to be
Its loss; it is to be
its avoidance. However,
It somehow is senile and insane.
Yes, it somehow
Is eradicated; and somehow it is
vanquished regarding
Its death; it is vanquished
regarding its sicknesses,
Regarding its dreams
of torrid damnation, regarding its
Delusions of torrential finitude,
finitude utterly
Significant, utterly entwined
by hated explosiveness.


Of Unrealistic Swirling

A swirling reality of
unrealistic swirling, this is
A loop embedded amongst
a pair of disks. This is
The counterbalance of
partiality imposed and impure.
It is the counterintuitive merging
of counterclockwise
Cloth; it is the merging of
one colorful paradox. Oh,
Encircled are these circles spun.
But they obtain
Their obtuseness via
intent's isosceles extremes. Yes,
That gaseous viscosity
rotates about all imagery.
But it is not recreated,
despite its recurrence.
Yes, no, it does hold
in this arc its writhing.
It does hold in its solitude
our churning duplication.
And it does cling to its
drowning, quite. Yes,
It is suffocated by its
faulty but fulfilling swirling,
By its transparency strung
unto that inclusion.