Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Paradoxically Misspelled Parascope

Blog-post # 308:
(308 = 2*7*11*2.)

(Six new art-images.)

Interwoven Were Convulsions

Anti-Redemptive Betterment

Our Hellish Euphoria

Melancholy Once Ourselves

Unworthy Of Its Supremacy

Superdivision Of Substructure

(I really like most of these images. But most of their names are not very good, being much too cliche, even by my standards.)

Anagrams (anagram! anagram!):

Vertical lengths die.
This rectangle lived.


As in that, a gyroscope,
again psychos rotate.


That vision is retrograde.
In me, so are we.
It remains.
Rotation disagrees, however.


Ha, I demean so its
sarcastic hypocrites.
They are instead as
microscopic as this.


Shy cop


(The word "hypocrite" says it is
better than those stupid
words that end in silent-e.)


Those whose misspellings
reveal their pretentiousness


(Oh,.. those Fraudian-slips.)


In which month does a cool breeze
feel especially good?...

'Ah, gust!'..


Probability theory can
be hard to study.
But if you have to
study it, then..

'tough luck!'..


If everything in it is on one side
as they take you to the hospital,
then there is an..

'imbalance in the ambulance'.


If the missiles are placed
along the country's border
incorrectly, then the..

'missile line is misaligned'..

(So tragic..
Almost as much as
an unbalanced ambulance is.)

(Not a pun, but..)

Why's "dumb" so hard to spell?..

Hmmm??.. :/


New saying
(said with a Southern accent):

"Hey, I got all's my balls."


Line from dumb comedy movie(?):

"Ah, yes, this wine
is a full-bodied fluid."

Snark-alec common-man:
"It's a 'body-fluid', you say?"


Our anger has been almost always
justified (much more so than any
of our lack of it, especially in
recent years).

But our responses to our anger
have been almost never justified.
(One only 'acts out' when they
are out of ideas how to act,
or at least effectively.)


(A rant-o-poem!
Mostly improvised,
but not improved.)

This shy cop's
a cyclops,
a 'psycho' anagrammed.

Yes, the spy-cops
are all cyber-cyclops.
They're sly cops
with their psy-ops,
with their sci-fi
wi-fi, hi-fi,
high-five hijinks,
and a haiku for you
too. So they try
to make us die,
these psycho liars
with their wires (and
whines and wines and
bodily fluids, like
drooling druids) and
with their eyes
all contrived to
deny the mediocre media
their prize: the lies
in their cries, and
deny them our
wise denial
held without trial.
But we even evidently
eventually inevitably
imply every and all
artifices argumentatively
of artificiality, of our
architectural archenemies;
as their enigmatic enemas
are all illiterate but not
alliterate or astray.

And so they see.
(Despite a black-light
black-hole controlling
their control.)
And so they free
us from our freedom,
from our wisdom.
(Oh, why's it dumb?)
Why are we then
typically to type
the typos of stereotypical
tickles all vertical, and
of quadraphonic-types
(but not triphonic-types)
all quite typo-critical
(all begetting their
bigotries of bygone
bigamists and of
anagrams and of
telegrams and of
holographic holocausts),
likewise unwise like we?

^(Yeah, this is not written
in my usual poetic style,
except that I now often use
alliterations in my poetry.)

Can one be arrested
for allittering?
Maybe now days one can.


What device can you
use to view Paris?

.. A 'paris-scope',
of course..



1 comment:

kikinotdee said...

I read your bonkers poem in the voice of willie wonka the original when they went through the tunnel on the boat, it works really well :D
I like the art to but I always do.