Monday, September 26, 2011

Oh, I Am Chasms

Blog post # 231:
(231 = 3*7*11.)

Approximate Nonexistence

Unfulfilling Lapse

Mathematics Without Vowels

Molten Thirst

Into An Interwoven Allegory


Dumb anagrams:

Nihilism sees.
Is in lies' mesh.


Ah, masochism.
Oh, I am chasms.


No poetry! I hate poetry. Screw it all.



Wednesday, September 21, 2011

The One Solace

Post # 230:
(230 = 2*23*5.)

A couple crappy pictures:
(I like the last post's pictures better.)

Undone And Undergone

Extraneous Absence

Unreal Pathology

Problematic Sanity

Certainty's Curiosity


No anagrams today. No poetry.

I am failing. I am falling, descending.
My dreams are all dead, and I might as well be so myself soon.
The truth of anything is unknown to all of us. We are all delusional. We are all idiots. Our future is our doom, our damnation.

Nothingness is the one solace.
All else should only be greatly feared.



Friday, September 16, 2011

Loser's Awe

Blog post # 229:
(229 = a prime, I think.)

Although Not Asymptotic

Anomalously Sometimes

Imagined Forethought

Awaiting Stillness


Just an anagram, then I am out of here.

Loser's Awe
Slow Erase



Monday, September 12, 2011

The Falling

Blog post # 228:
(228 = 2*3*19*2.)

Slivers Of Shards Of Flatness

Of Partiality Known

Oblique Balance

Horrible Enlightenment



Sliced out
Lies do cut.


I shouldn't write about 9-11, since almost everyone has had something to say about it. But I will.

I first heard about the attacks while I was taking a shit. Really. I was at a friend's house, and one of her roommate's told the other about the planes hitting, and I heard about it through the bathroom door. Later, the fact I first heard about the attacks while taking a shit seemed to be so appropriate, given what happened to America as a direct result of this "terror".

The morning of the attacks, before I heard about them, I wrote a poem about enlightenment. Now, this seemed later to me to be very INAPPROPRIATE, since America and much of the world had just entered an era of deception, an era we still have yet to exit, if we ever do.

I remember watching one of the buildings collapsing on TV. I didn't know if it was live or taped, but I told my friend as I watched it that the collapse was simultaneously one of the most beautiful and ugly things I have ever seen. Had I known that more than a 1000 people were in the building at the time, I likely would have felt it to be more of an ugly thing than a beautiful one. But whatever.

In the months before the attacks, I often wrote misanthropic poetry about the vileness and evil and sadism and cruelty of humanity. The attacks greatly confirmed my feelings.
However, in the days right after 9-11, Americans seemed to try to be nicer to each other. People from around the world showed their support for Americans.
But soon, my misanthropic feelings were confirmed again. Almost all Americans wanted blood. The Bush administration soon rushed to war. I knew that many innocent Afghanis, who were no more guilty for what happened to us than the very people killed in the attacks themselves were, would soon be murdered by America in my name. Next, to only compound the injustice, America rushed to war with another country that didn't even attack us. Lies were told. And the meager opposition to this unjust war was greatly marginalized and demonized.

American politicians on the right especially seemed almost ecstatic we were attacked on 9-11, since this meant that they could take cynical political advantage of the events for their own purposes. Over the next decade human rights have been violated, people have been tortured, many people have been surveilled without justification. It is no wonder many believe that the Bush administration was actually behind the attacks. The administration sure acted like it.

We may never recover from 9-11. America is no longer nearly as free as it used to be, not even close.
Trillions of tax dollars have been spent on this new military and security state. Meanwhile, America is crumbling.

I hate what we have become. The bigotry, the authoritarianism.
My misanthropy has only been confirmed repeatedly in the last decade. Greatly.

America fell like the towers on 9-11. Indeed. I'm sick of hearing about the "human spirit" over the last few day. Human beings do not deserve such praise. And you know what, we most certainly never ever will.


Poem, written 3 days ago:

Within That Awkward Wrapping

These semicircles amass
and configure as
A lumpy annulus of
wondrous overlapping.
And again, they are
slivers of shards of
Flatness. Yes, they
are propped unto this
Exception and are
thus protruding, quite.
The ring, however,
is somewhat of slabs.
And it punctures
its perpendicularity
Otherwise dull,
otherwise unlikely. Yet
These semicircles are
torn and placed
Into counterintuitive
To be surely still and
stranded about their
Surreal rotation.
And they assume
To seem, and they
seem to curve
Within that
awkward wrapping.
Ah, such segmentation
is our conjoining.
It is our assemblage
sometimes never so.



Thursday, September 8, 2011

Unjust Truth

Blog post # 227:
(227 = a prime.)

Dire Relinquishment

Anger Frightened By Dreams

Euphoria Despised

Threatening Hallowedness


A very appropriate anagram:

Vain Elite
In Evil Tea


One poem, written today:

Injustice Is

Injustice is demanding
of our thirst. But
We still adore its parables
and ridiculousness.
Ah, injustice is both
our memory and superstition.
And it fools and fails
our pathos as it damns us,
As it becomes our stupidity
quite narcissistic.

Yet we admire such illusions
of hallowedness.
We admire these
vile invocations of all.
And injustice negates
the truthful transcendence
That might have been
our remorse, ha. It
Then is tempting
but threatening. And it
Soon deprives us of
any equation, deprives us of
Any apparitions or
mathematics therefore justified.



Sunday, September 4, 2011

Solitary Emptiness

Blog post # 226:
(226 = 2*113.)

Inept Slander

Aside From Infinitesimals

Violent Blandness

Displaced Crescendo



Tough Failures
His Future Goal


See Balloon
As Lone Lobe


One poem, written today:

Its Fangs Oddly Not Of Teeth

Solitary emptiness is hewn
from the concavity of
This partial sphere. Oh,
in the mouth among us,
A bulb ascends into
displaced crescendo, yes.
And again, the one cusp
equals that lip. Its
Angle is both vertical and
oblique, yet it obscures
Failing void with its protrusion,
with its breath.

For, here are these
two knives within. They
Are dissimilar but askew.
They rise from
Their floating unto
attachment. And the mouth
Is to dream of its shards,
of its fangs
Oddly not of teeth.
Throughout this jutting,
Thoughts do become
such a teratoma, do become
Such beautiful superstition
overtly chewed.