Not Too Clever

Blog post # 116:

The three most recent pictures of mine:
(I enjoy their names much more than I enjoy the images themselves.)

Three-Fourths A Dream


Exception To Counterbalances


Astronomical Sap


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Anagram:

Now as a harpy lies
=
Yes, Sarah Palin, ow.

(Not too clever, anagram-wise, but fitting anyway.)

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The modern age is the Neon Eon.

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Raw sewage is the grossest thing ever.
I prefer MY sewage to be medium/well-done....

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Okay, now that the fun stupid crap is out of the way, here is the un-fun pseudo-intellectual crap.

Poetry! (Arrggg!)

First poem was written two days ago.

Of An Anthropomorphic Bean
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Three-fourths the torus, 3/4 the rotation of
An incomplete ring -- then upon what would be
Otherwise such a truncation, the cylinder descends
And exists as quite an absurd extreme, ha.
And in the penetration downwardly, there a
Single sprout of an anthropomorphic bean, it
Rises to encase the weird item above. There,
The plant meanders about that unexplained
Steam. Then it breathes of beauty unseen.
And it sleeps upon air and silt and crystal.

Oh, 3/4 the germinated thing, it grows into
A stranger torus yet. For, vegetable and
Imbalance somewhat replicate, despite their
Ugliness. But these leaves and stems
Of our human fluids will never quite
Reveal flesh's poisonous lust. Yes, the sprout
Is wound around its anger. It grasps anew
At its soul's shape, and then it metastasizes;
Then it dreams of libido and hideous
Damnation soon to turn and drip, soon
To recreate all imagination from only
A pod, from just a bean of accident
And 3/4 circles themselves reniform.

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Last poem was written today:

Planets Of Steam And Color
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Around
Planets of steam and color, around planets of neon
Made from fuchsia, from glass; the crystalline strands
Encircle this quasi-sphere; and they form such a
Refractive annulus, yes. Ah, these rings incline,
But only minimally. And they vary in increments.
They utter these undulations of curvature. Yet
They translucently depict their gloss as simply
Artificial, amorphous, and mysteriously visceral.

And the quasi-sphere within, its gasses swirl
And transform blood into sap. Yet that
World does become our beckoning. It is
Darker than its very eclipses. And it is
Damper than those strings wound about it.
For, a crumpled thing such as this place, its
Foolishness is the ice afloat amongst it.
However, these winds rotate as opaque water
In that sphere within circles. Oh, the dimensions
Of all of it are looped into a consistent twine,
Are looped into our astronomy somewhat above us
And utterly spiteful of our blatant intuition.

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Leroy