Of The Actuality Of All Inconsistency

Blog post # 134:

Immaterially Traversed


Clangorous Inadequacy


Of Only Nothingness And Screams


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The true shape of truth, what is it? Is it a subdivided circle, or is it a hexagon made of coincidences?

So much would surprise us if we knew the truth of everything. Reality is not as we suspect, not at all.

They lied and still lie to us, trying to deceive us. Nobody is to be trusted, not even yourself. I don't trust myself. But that is not enough.

No, reality will never be revealed, for it is much too strange. Our ignorance is our sleep in which we are dreaming of being psychotic. And our psychosis is our reality. It is our only purpose.

Yes, to be insane, that is why we are alive. That is why we are still to be ignorant of truth, of the actuality of all inconsistency.

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Okay, that wasn't really a poem. But these are! (Darnit.)

(Written yesterday.)

Because Of This Conceited Sum
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Numbers progress upwardly
yet meaninglessly as
Such arpeggios and
spectra incrementally sustained.
And we count the
enumerations of those integers,
Of those numbers of numbers
not complaining
Of our calculations.
But we attempt to
Cease our reoccurrences
upon particular sets
Of groupings. Yet
we must still zigzag
And oscillate and continue
unto the endpoints
Of infinity, of
coincidental shapelessness,
yes.

For, these numbers are
of an essential game, a
Game quite inconsistent
and despised. But because
Of this conceited sum,
they meander unto
Their unimportance,
unto their severing within
The segmentation of
partitions otherwise
Tallied, also failed
and impractical, surely
Placed at just
one extreme of
All linear pathways bounded,
pathways paradoxically
Not ever weird or monotonic.

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(Written today.)

Apparently Of Saber-Blades
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Apparently these
dull saber-blades, they
Might be smooth crescents,
or could have been
A progression of numbered
knives approaching us.
Or they could have become
the zigzagged spiral,
Expanding in this vantage
outwardly from
Side and other side
alternately abutting, ha.

But their sharpness is
as the metal, is
Not as their points
protruding bicuspidly
And opposed. Oh,
these razors come at me
And my ignorance.
But they pass me as
They then surpass me,
upwardly and behind me
Unto this imagined void
once made of
Only nothingness
and screams.

Yes, these
Saber-blades are not
concerned with the
Very algorithm that
configures them, no.
Yet they are a salve,
not a wound,
For such cutting anger.
And they will
Pass our flesh so as to
be just simply
Thoughts, so as to be
their undulation
And description regarded
so as but
Only semicircular and
never varying, never
Formed except from
beauty's claws, the
Same claws they
have apparently infuriated.

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Leroy