Of The Actuality Of All Inconsistency

Blog post # 134:

Immaterially Traversed


Clangorous Inadequacy


Of Only Nothingness And Screams


---------------------------

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.

----------------------------

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

(Written yesterday.)

Because Of This Conceited Sum
-------------------------

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.

--------------------------

(Written today.)

Apparently Of Saber-Blades
-----------------------

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.

-------------------------

Leroy

Huh?

Blog post # 133:

Sorry for the stupidness.

Objectified Vacuousness


Subsequent Shard


Forgotten Helix


Swallow The Loxodrome


-----------------------------

A new poll!

What?

(1) I told you so
(2) Vibrant spittle
(3) Transcend the spiral
(4) What?
(5) I think so
(6) You're lying!
(7) Wink-wink
(8) How?
(9) This answer. Pick me!
(10) None of the above

------------------------------

Nothing more, but two poems:

Procession Of Indescribable Increments
-----------------------

The horizontal stack
of elliptical disks,
It is arrayed as such
intermediacy, as such
Extrema placed along
this row of segmentation
Varying in its radii but
not in its thicknesses.
And it appears, this matter,
to be its slabs,
To be its mass somewhat
poisonous. And, yes,
Its toxicity is its geometry,
and its
Truncation is its
counterbalance. Yet I do not
Transcend that stack
portrayed as the procession
Of indescribable increments.
Oh, I do not
Permutate that tableau
of chaotic simplicity.
For, this lengthy line
of rounded intervals,
It is as its regard
ever vanquished. Yes,
This horizontal stack
does arc rectilinearly.
It is still conformingly consecutive.
But it is
Oddly repetitious,
and so, it is laterally
Without any angle or
tangent we should shun.

--------------------------

Of An Explosion Starkly Imperative
-------------------------

Exploding towards all
entropy and circularity,
The angular flatness curls
upon its expression.
It descends within its left,
protruding
rightward at its right.
But its backside
converges only
As perspective's
glaring cusp. Ah, its mass
Is of diminutive dimensions.
But it does flow
Into a crest, then it
abstains elsewhere. Its
Triangularity is cursive and
shaped not as
Such facades. No, it is only
completed when
This interval of
forward vastness narrows.

But beyond the broadness
and the apex, a
Bidirectional bulbousness
becomes again the
Intersecting columns
between. Oh, it explodes
As irregularity
obviously perfect. But that
Blast is quite a crescendo
of blunt hazard, of
Blunt prongs each clangorous.
Yes, from the
Simplest of points is
flung outwardly
This cloth and
cylindrical shards. It asks
Us if it can be such thunder.
However, we are
Only immobilized by the
subsequent ash, by
The smoke of an
explosion starkly imperative.

---------------------------

Leroy-The-Loser

Antipodal Dichotomies

Post # 132:

This Dullness Is Precise


This Sharpness Is Ambiguous


Inertia Therefore Intuitive


I don't like the top two pictures that much. But their names are dichotomous.

----------------------------

Poll results:

I asked which direction you would most like to travel from where you are currently. The poll received 6 votes. 4 of these votes were for Southwest.(Winner!) One vote was for Northeast. And one vote was for South.

Plotted:
.......^
....../
.....*
..../|
.../.v
../
./
v

----------------------------

Dumb joke:

How do you know if a witch is stupid?
...

...If she can't even spell!...

(Or if she tells a stupid joke like this one.)

----------------------------

People sometimes refer to the current era as the Great Recession, a play on The Great Depression. Well, I say we stick with psychological conditions for our names, at least in the name of the current era. You see, things are SO AbsURd lately! .. with everything from a basically rightwing president being called a "socialist", Nazis being referred to by pundits and religious leaders as "atheists" and "left-wing liberals", and an idiotic, incompetent, and far-right "Momma Grizzly" being made the idol of a good portion of the American public.

Things are really topsy-turvy, aren't they!?

I say we call the current era
*The Great Psychosis*.

----------------------------

Damn, I hate the news. Every single day, every single day, every single day. SO MUCH every single day to be absolutely depressed about,

Hey, the news screws!!

----------------------------

Poem: Written today:

This Dichotomously
Antipodal Finitude
-------------------

Such counterbalance
transcends the hole,
The bulb. It is composed
of that tapering
Unto just a singularity
of pinching, of
Emptiness versus substance,
of mass and
Void derived from
the very thoughts
Of symmetry
quite unbalanced. Oh, in the
Concavity upon the left,
the slender gape
Penetrates that spheroid
onto its edge.
And it is the abstinence
of truth, but is
Also the absence
of deception. Oh, into
That puncture,
nothingness transits it
And our scribbled minds.
And vagueness is
Obvious within that
hollowness, within
That completion.

Ha, in the convexity
upon the right,
The knob is as a
droplet also squeezed.
It is as the opposite
of the hole. But it
Too truncates at
that cusp, at that
Unexplainably
undetermined superposition.
Yet this shard is ludicrous.
For, in
Such counterbalance,
a point pokes both
Inwardly and externally.
Therefore, the
Shape is noncontiguous,
but is consistent
And oddly implied
by our assumptions of
Quasi-tori and semi-absurdities,
by this
Dichotomously antipodal
finitude of our
Gouging, of
our stained neutrality.

--------------------------

Leroy

I Am In Gray

Blog post # 131:

Angles Weirdly Predictable


Quadratic Cornea


Grotesquely Equilateral


------------------------------

Today's anagram:

IMAGINARY
=
I AM IN GRAY.

------------------------------

[Politics Alert! Politics Alert!]

So, what I don't get is why most conservatives here in America are so opposed to Islam and Muslims. Lots of Muslims are conservatives too, conservative even to the point of ridiculousness, or so it seems sometimes to our American eyes.

Anyway.

But what is sad is that many American conservatives, as well as some liberals, use the perceived offensiveness of Islamic beliefs to try to justify the rounding up of sometimes innocent people, mostly men and boys, to be tortured and held incommunicado without trial indefinitely.
Never mind how "idiotic" or "crazy" Islam is. That is not the point. The point is, it is wrong and EVIL to treat ANYBODY that way, let alone innocent people*, whatever those people's beliefs!
...
Hey, I'm also against torturing conservative Christians!

*(I read that even the Bush administration secretly assumed that 90% of Guantanamo detainees were innocent, despite all their talk about the detainees being "the worst of the worst".)

------------------------------

[Warning! Politics! Warning! Politics!]
[And other talk that may offend many readers.]

Okay, let's say your kid -- an 8-year-old girl, say -- was sexually molested when she was younger by Satan-worshippers, or something like that. And let's say that grandma is on her death-bed way across the country, and will die probably within the next 2 days. Grandma's final wish? To see her grand-daughter one last time. Okay, so you go to the airport, and they flag your daughter for the new enhanced security-check. Now, she either has to be seen naked by the full-body scanner, something which terrifies her (due to her past). Or, worse, she has to be felt-up by a TSA security guard (a woman, yes, but a scary, probably lesbo, woman). Okay, so you say, this is the perfect reason why we should profile at the airport. Bombers aren't going to look like an 8-year-old (presumably white) girl. Okay, so let's say that the girl's family is Arab. And to make matters worse, her mother is wearing a hijab. And what if some bomber DOES someday hide explosives in a toddler's diaper. Maybe even in a white toddler's diaper. Then what? Do we now have to have enhanced pat-downs of little kids? Wouldn't that make the TSA officials who engage in these pat-downs into child-molesters? I know, I know. It's a post-9-11 world. We all have to make sacrifices. (Well, only the middle and lower classes really have to make sacrifices; but that is another rant for another day.) So maybe kids -- all kids, even white kids, and at least Arab and, yes, black kids (remember, some terrorists are black) -- should be banned from flying all together (Grandma be damned), or otherwise the TSA is going to have to molest them. (Sorry for my anger, but I lowered my dose of meds this morning, and I am pissed at everything.)

-----------------------

[Poetry alert! Poetry Alert!]

Only one poem, though.

Written today:

Of Strands Formed
----------------

Of strands made from
threads made from filaments
Of imagination spun with truth,
oh, these substances
Are grotesquely equilateral
and are finely
Crumpled yet. But they
complete the composition
Of faint obviousness, of
failed obliviousness thus
Transcendental although
never immediate. Oh, of
Strands formed from virtue,
from wispy subsets
Of such conceit, these
atoms condense into
Time; and time fulfills
the very darkness we
Consider, despite
our nonexistence. Oh, into
Those winding wires
electrified by ash and
Energy of
consciousness diverging,
the static
Courses and becomes
all foolishness. Yes,
We untie and tie
those idiotic knots in
Strands of our expression.
And then
We are bound within
this bundling, within
This tangle
doubtfully random, this tangle
Unexpectedly absurd amongst
the clamor, amongst
Our limbo otherwise strung,
otherwise comprehended.

---------------------------

Leroy

Uncool

Blog post # 130:

Transcendental Predicate


Flatness' Provocation


I don't know about these pictures. They are just adequate, as is most of my art I publish. I kind of like the name "Transcendental Predicate", though.

--------------------------------

Wow, the second post in two days. I'm post-a-matic.

I am angering myself -- and probably you all too -- because I am posting most of the poems I have written. That is NOT cool! My intent originally was to post only a very small sample of my poetry, if any at all. I myself hate reading poetry (mostly because I will inevitably copy the style of anybody else's poetry I read, an annoying habit). And my poetry is particularly nasty and cliche.

Yet, I like most of my poems I have written lately JUST BARELY ENOUGH to go ahead and publish them. It would be nice if I was more self-critical.

Fuck me.

----------------------------

The latest two poems I have written:

Pathways Vanquishing Our Relinquishment
------------------------------

Remembrances then iridescent,
they tell of
These games once bland.
Yet I still scrawl
The glyphs within
square-like spaces. And I
Still connect x's to their
progression through
That finitude otherwise eternal.
Yes, I am the
Player of transcendental
flatness. And we, we
Both collaborate in our conflict.
Ah, we each
Remember these lattices
inertly crystalline but
Entropically fluidic.
I did truly succumb to
My own predicates, ha.
But my postulated
Elongation was diminished.
So, we plagiarized
Those riddles of pen
versus ink. Then
We laughed upon
the grid of our
Immobility. Yes,
our losses were our
Confidence, and our
consciences were
Our equations. But
we remembered only
The blandness of such
spectacles. Thus.
We were revolted anew
by triumphs, by these
Pathways disabling
our meandering, those
Pathways vanquishing
our relinquishment.

----------------------------

Neither Cones Nor Beauty
--------------------

Neither cones nor beauty
devour their peels.
But of their juices, they
gorge and supremely
Swallow such visions, yes.
For, in the molting
Of conical thorns, these
shapes become articulated
And otherwise counterfeit.
But such flowering cusps
Bend somewhat upwardly
to be that provocation,
To be that flatness
now penetrative.

Oh, neither
Knives nor curled wisps
consume all of all.

Yet the lavender and
the ludicrousness
Are certain to transform,
to congeal from point
To roundness to each
extremum imagined. Yes,
In literate geometries,
the slivers and
Shards are our strangeness.
We are then to
Be devoured, as peels
and juices and mass,
By these corpses still dying,
by cones
And beauty assumed
to vary, but also
To exist as senile,
to exist as our immaturity,
To exist as the bigotry of
Aged and youthful helices
each wound questionably.

--------------------------

Sorry, suckers,
Leroy

Focus On The Blurs

Blog post # 129:

Ludicrous Enrichment


Iridescent Ignition


-------------------------

An anagram!

SEE, I FOCUS ON THE BLURS
=
OF THIS SOUR BLUE SCENE.

-------------------------

So, as many of you know, I often drink lots of tea.

Hey, can I have my tea... to go!?...

(No problems there!..)

-------------------------

Poems, written yesterday and the day before.

Roundnesses All Protruding
----------------------

Roundness' cusps evoke
their vertical rendering
Upon that egg-like seed.
And the seed is
Horizontal too upon
the dimensionality of
Both such lengths placed
curvedly, placed
As spires never oblique
or parallel. But of
This rhomboidal tangle
above us, the wisps
Become the inflections
artificially astray.
Yes, roundnesses all protrude
into their descent
And ascent and into their
receding outwardness.
Those curls, though, with
smooth topsides, they
Portray this ambiguity as
certain and as uncertain,
Portray the spheroids as
sharp, as if they
Were knives and strands
and calculation, oh.
Roundness' cusps evoke
this rotation quite
Rectilinear, true. Yet
the wheel spins as if it
Is toppled; it turns about
the axis perpendicular
To its center, turns
neither clockwise
Nor counterclockwise,
but it turns in its madness,
Flattening all disks into
circles and all circles
Into spheres, into such
dichotomous shapes composed
Of our geometric and
anthropomorphic ludicrousness.

----------------------

Severing Of Combustive Implosiveness
-----------------------------

Flowing with fire, such
crescents conjoin to be
Those flames upon this
vanguard. Oh, upon this
Facade of fiery light,
all arousal is our anger,
And all angles are acute,
surely. Yes, upon
That blaze's flattened
spirals, I am transposed
Through transcendence
unto this smoke of our din.
Oh, flowing with fire,
these stars become space,
And space returns to its
conjectures, to its
Possibilities in its
repressed condensation.
But those lies burn us as
our thoughts do also.
So, we ignite the
diagonally ascending clamor.
And it cuts us and blisters us
and takes
From us our ash. Yes,
in this cremation, we
Are soothed. But
the fire forms only its
Very iridescence from
that refraction. Yes, we
Are singed by our triteness,
singed again by our
Processes and by our
shame uttered between us
And the severing of
our combustive implosiveness.

------------------------

Leroy

Absurd Sugar

Blog post # 128:

These are actually the best two pictures of mine created over the last four days. Man, I suck.

Asymptotically Finite


Interpolated Fruit


-----------------------------

Stupid palindrome:

We snot tons, ew.

-----------------------------

What one word would you use to describe the next decade on Earth, as you would predict it?

I would choose either: Hellacious, Fascist, or Absurd.

-----------------------------

So sorry, but today I have THREE poems for you.

(All written over the last few days.)


These Semi-Swirls
------------------

Semi-swirls juxtaposed
with inner doppelgangers,
Each once becoming the
single string underneath --
Hyphenated and abutted,
these tubes are as
Half tori somewhat spiraled,
somewhat tapering.

Those quasi-nautili, they
behold their positioning
Inside the gape of a
vast semicircular hole.
Between that arc and
that truncation,
The object is curled,
yet it is orthogonal, yet
It is rectilinearly impure.
Oh, severed are
Those cones bent
introspectively. And they
Form the orbit around
nothingness. Yes,
These semi-swirls are
as such duplication,
Are as such doubling
quartered and cut, are as
Partiality winding clockwise,
partiality diminishing
Into but a lengthy point,
becoming only
The substance within
the hollowness within
This hideousness of
flatness, within this
Zeroness churning
fluidically, churning as
Segmented rings --
perhaps, yes, perhaps
Remaining perfectly
partial and parallactic.

--------------------------

In This Windy Trigonometry
---------------------------

From the spheroid's
top exterior,this wispy thing
-- Unimaginatively imagined
-- flows in one wave,
Arcing upwardly then
downwardly then completing
In its ascension. But
the curve is wondrously
Idiotic and is confusingly
simplistic, surely. It
Inflects upon the
circumference of that knob.
Yet its meandering is trite,
ha. Its minimization
Is absurd although truthful,
although periodic
As to existence's singularity.
And what is this
Material within such
disregard? Oh, what is the
Shape of individuality
repeated? In this windy
Trigonometry otherwise
stagnant, these filaments
Compose that rotation.
From sines/cosines
Abutted onto a
curvaceous zigzag, all
Oscillates -- yet but once.
For, certain am I
Of the blurriness. Yes,
certainly the thing
Is contingent and
contiguous and is failed via
Its porousness; yet it is
successful via its
Symmetry about quite an
annoying and inert
Placement, about the
spheroid of its unwrapping.

-----------------------------

That Fruit Of Our Depiction
-----------------------------

A globe, a lobe of substance
and spirit, its
Exoskeleton is smooth and
haphazard. But its innards
Are fulfilling and divisive,
as the beautiful pus
Within such fruit. Oh,
these segmentations contain
Both pulp and juices.
But the acidic slices
Of this corpse, they taste not
of introspection. Yet
We gaze into our own
conjuring inside that
Flesh, inside what is quite
a colorful uterus,
Yes. And the peel of this,
it becomes the
Severing of vegetation.
We are never, though,
To conceive of its semicircles,
of its spheres cut
Roundly, cut hypothetically
again. Oh, I
Deny my saliva those
sugars. But I still
Devour the polygons
and the sap. Yes, I
Consume both crescendo
and asymmetry. But
My sleep is only countered
by my swallowing.
And I am threatened by
that fruit of our
Depiction, that fruit of our
deaths each flavorful.

----------------------------

Leroy

Tangents Of Our Stupidity

Blog post # 127:

Exception To Tangents


Glistening Of Ash


Metallic Nothingness


I know, I know. Metallic Nothingness should have been a black-and-white picture, given its name. But, hey, sometimes you have to create what you have to create.

------------------------------

Radical Radishes...

Spicy.

------------------------------

Short anagrams:

Airport =
Or a trip.

Evolution =
In/out love.

------------------------------

Speaking of stupidity...

I had a theory that one reason we may be getting dumber and dumber as a species is not just that the less intelligent are more likely to breed (as illustrated by the movie Idiocracy). People a 100 years ago were probably physically stronger in general than we are today due to the commonality then of tough manual labor and the relative lack of machinery as compared with currently. So, what will happen when computers more often do our thinking for us? Computers can already come up with math theorems, for instance. As AI becomes a bigger and bigger part of decision-making and takes over tasks (such as making art) once carried out by people, will human-beings become less intelligent on average? I would say that pocket calculators, for instance, have not been good for overall human IQ.

What are your thoughts, if you even have them anymore?

-------------------------------

Tangents
----------

Tangents between such
spaces are only flung
As thoughtful ejecta
from all the universe,
From all of the edifice
incorrectly spherical.
Yet tangents are as an
abrupt and cursive polyp,
Are as spikes tilted
absurdly and rotated
Irregularly unto their
backsides. Yes, these
Linear wedges bluntly
protrude from that
Curvaceous course.
And they are unprovoked
By concavity, oh.
Surely they are doubtful of
The spirals, and are dubious
of the lemniscates.
But of cones, they are
imagined and are
Somewhat elliptical.

Yes, they are between
Their intermediacy
drawn inconsistently.

For, the tangents are
weird and scrawled within
This centrifugal foam.
They therefore truncate
Such bulbs at truth's
overtness. And then they
Relate those atoms to the
exteriors of prongs,
Becoming the
drooping ascension
of certainty,
Of exception.

-------------------

Leroy Quet

A Magic Rat-Man

Blog post # 126:

As usual, the pictures I post are made over the several days before I posted them. These were made over the last 4 days.

Paraphrased Periphery


Finitude Misinformed


Diminishment Of Algebra


---------------------------

Anagram:

ANAGRAMMATIC
=
A MAGIC RAT-MAN

(Is it a sign of the coming messiah?...)

----------------------------

Poll results!

Question: On a scale of 0 to 10, how certain are you that we exist?
(0 = absolutely certain we do not exist. 10 = absolutely certain we do exist.)

The poll received 6 votes, each vote for a different number.

The numbers receiving a vote were: 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10.
Their average is about: 6.83.

(No, I didn't vote in this poll. I myself would have probably picked some smaller number.)

-----------------------------

New poll!

Which of these directions do you most want to travel from where you are currently?
North, Northeast, East, Southeast, South, Southwest, West, or Northwest?

This question is somewhat ambiguous on purpose.

------------------------------

Two poems, both written a few days ago.

Zigzagged Atrocities
---------------------

Zigzagged atrocities
performed by absurd
Abstraction, all maddeningly
doodled, they
Tempt our adroit callousness
with such cursive,
With such disregard
never resented, never
Quadratic. Ah, surely,
these punctured swirls
Are certain of this
clutching, of this
Unjustified clamor
and its iridescent tableaux.

Zigzagged atrocities
meander about their loops.
But irregular are those
equilateral brains.
Yes, irregularly we
abruptly inflect and
Then return to our
retrogradation. For,
This course is coarse
and cowardly. It is yet
Paraphrased by peripheral
parallax -- right, left,
Rightward, leftward.
We are curvilinear, ha.
And reality is uncertain
of its anger,
Is ambivalent regarding
its symmetries
Both arrogant and
wiggled by wispy stillness.

-------------------------

Triumphant Failure
-------------------

First, we permutate those
penciled specks amongst
Quite an intermittent grid.
But this flatness
Is blurry and absurd,
as is all truth, yes.
For, such x's are the scars
of our gambits, are the
Scars of our games made
into numbers surely drawn but
Only seemingly mathematical
or alphabetical, actually.
And we differentiate positions
of horizontality
Multiplied by verticality.
But ignored are the
Blasphemous diagonals
never deceiving. Oh, again in
Uncertain and incremental
transformations, numbers
Progress; yet, they do not
equate to misinformation,
Ha. Oh, from extremes to
intermediacy, this triumphant
Failure is our conceit,
and rectangularly
Summed are our pathways.
Yes, rectangular
Are these grids also square,
also flat and
Shapeless and overly finite.
And that withered game,
It does relinquish its
orthogonality so as to be our
Madness, so as to be our darkness
thus disregarded.

----------------------------

Leroy

Thoughts Of Implication

Blog post # 125:

Introspective Astrophysics


Twice The Halves


Of Woven Minds


(I most like "Of Woven Minds".)

-------------------------------

Bad joke:

Why was the falsely-3-D illusion not substantive?....

...Because it was just a hollow-gram!... (Argg.)

(Appropriate joke, maybe, for... Hollow-ween.
Or maybe not.)

-------------------------------

Two, two, poems: (I should be ashamed.)

(First written Oct 28.)

Against The Exterior Of Our Introspection
---------------------------------

Drooping upwardly and
curvedly counterclockwise,
The spire turns unto its
inward cusp. It creates
Within its edges a
half-crescent coiling. And
It implies the truths
of partiality and weirdness.

And upon that point upon
such a claw, radiating
Against the exterior of
our introspection, ah, are
Prongs and light and cinders
of an implosive fire,
Are images and spit
and thoughts of astrophysics
-- It all expresses
its outward flow. It
All presumes those
sparks to be lines, to
Be polyhedral, yes.
And these cursive spells
Explode within the
vastness, horizontally
And vertically; obliquely
rotated, obviously
Arrogant. Oh, from this
word once mathematical,
Truth is excreted
and is yet counterintuitive.
It is denied and unexpected,
yes. But it is surely
Asymmetrical. It is
surely longitudinal. And
It is potentially shaped
as our ignorance, is
Potentially formed from
only its own vanishing
Poised upon our
ambiguous wonder
Wondrously inconsistent.

-------------------------

(Written today.)

Maybe The Spiral
-----------------

Perhaps that winding cloth
is diminished as it
Progresses inwardly unto
a pinpoint shallowness.
Perhaps the distance is
illusory; yet its stillness
Is between such twisted gaps.
And maybe the
Curled paper is
backwardly coiled and is
Made upright yet diagonal
regarding its iterations.

Ah, rendered is the
tilted spiral of mental
Beauty and of thoughtful ugliness.
Rendered
Are these conjured convergences
of all algorithms,
Of all introverted spectacles.
Oh, within
The turning within the
inflection within such
Again unceasingly,
the cloth is spun and is
Woven from specious substance.
It thus is
Insincere among its strands,
among those
Threads themselves helical,
themselves made from
Only questions and possibility.
And perhaps
This arcing shape is
continuous. Or maybe
The spiral undulates and
ambiguously (ambivalently)
Coincides with that
unexplained pathway
Multiplied simultaneously
as it is dampened.

----------------------------

Leroy

Eclipse Of Truth

Blog post # 124:

Forwardly Equilibrial


Ludicrous Substance


Mysterious Circumferences


Counterintuitive Gnomon


------------------------------

All these people now days: so stupid and gullible, so evil. I guess they are...

Naive-il.

(That's "naive" mixed with "evil". It's easier to say phonetically than to write out.)

------------------------------

Now scientists are saying that the universe may be a 2-dimensional illusion that only seems to be 3-dimensional -- a hologram projected from the edge of the universe. As a matter of fact, scientists are currently building a so-called "holometer" (Google it) at Fermilab that might PROVE this all is just an illusion.

I always suspected that the "gods" (who may be nothing more than scientists in a higher-level more real universe) would have us all never find out the truth of our illusion. That may still be a fact -- maybe the illusion doesn't have the nature that will seem to have when we are finally "enlightened".
But I must praise them for at least revealing that this all IS an illusion of SOME type, whatever that type really is.

-----------------------------

And finally, the poem I wrote today:

The Sundial Despised
---------------------

I despised the sundial
and its shadows counted.
Yet, of its ambiguous gnomon,
ah, there was
Truth's imbalance.
And truth knew
Of sunlight and dimness
amongst the numbers,
Amongst the increments
permutated by ignorance.

Oh, darkness told us of
the hours within it.
But daylight retained its
imagination so as to
Become these resentful
polygons upon which
We depict our humanity.
Oh, such a timepiece
Wonders regarding its
solitude and its
Spectacle thusly selfish.
For, I despised
That inanimate clockwork.
Yet I forgave
Its mathematics.
Because its multiplicity knew
Of those random visions
drawn onto its face.

And I knew of its unease.
Yes, I knew of this
completion of waking
And of artifices all circular,
each ecliptic.

-----------------------------

Leroy

Nothing To Believe In

Blog post # 123:

Juxtaposed Impediments


Perched Upon Its Drowning


-----------------------------

Is Nothingness (upper-case N)
convex or concave?

-----------------------------

Does believing in something -- a lot -- mean that it is true? (Due to quantum physics or magic or something?)

What if you believe that things aren't necessarily as you believe?

What if you believe that NOTHING that you believe -- not even this particular belief expressed in this sentence -- is as you believe? Does that screw with the universe?

Anyway, maybe this is all a dream, and the dream plays itself out as I think it will. (I sure hope not, since I think we are doomed.)
But what if I believe that this is not a dream? Does that make it real? I know I've dreamt that I was not dreaming. And I was dreaming anyway, it turned out. But maybe I am dreaming that what I believe can often be wrong.

I don't know what is real! I don't know what to believe! Should I not believe in anything?

There are people who almost everything they believe, or at least claim they believe, is the exact opposite of the truth.
At least according to what I believe.

What if I just didn't believe in these people anymore? They are too ignorant to exist.

That's why I think I am dreaming. Because the idiots are so profoundly wrong, they can't possibly be real.

(Did I mention I think we are doomed?)

-------------------------------

Poem: Written today: Inspired by second picture above.

Quasi-Fluidic Butterfly
------------------------

Perched upon air, upon this
voice of imagined minds,
Is a quasi-fluidic butterfly.
Drowning, it falls
Onto the grid beneath us all.
And it speaks of
Sand, speaks of seeds
seemingly drawn
as exoskeletons.

Oh, sprouting from
weird germination, the death
Of bugs impedes such impetus.
But these wings
Invoke my
thoughtful imperfection.
These insects
Invoke my unease. And
I pause for our doom
And hideous vanishing.
Yes, I drown as
My spit, and I breathe as
my voice. And I fly
As my very grounding.
Oh, I float as
Such hydroponics, as
these aerodynamic dreams.

Amongst myself, I am
perched upon my existence.
Ah, I am asleep upon
my emptiness, am sleeping
Within my corpse yet bigoted,
yet hindered
By blurriness feigned.

--------------------------

Leroy

Stupid Stupid Stupid

Blog post # 122:

Stupidity's Hypotenuses


Hazardous Fulfillment


Fissure


(My favorite of these is Hazardous Fulfillment; but I might reconsider because this picture is so gosh darn cliche.)

-------------------------------

So, you know what the world does not need? A Pixar movie about Sarah Palin, that's what.

I see it now. She's shooting wolves from a helicopter, and a bunny rabbit on the sidelines says with snark,
...
"So,.. she's a cat person."..

-------------------------------

Okay, here's a crude joke.

How is a bran muffin like a screwdriver?

Answer: Both can help loosen up your stools.

(Har har)

Not only is this joke not funny, but I think I stole it.

Anyway, some jokes are funny just BECAUSE they are stupid.

But if that is true,... then
why doesn't Sarah Palin make me laugh?

(Maybe she is more of a stupid PRACTICAL joke.... pulled on us all.)

------------------------------

Okay, a poem inspired by the last picture above.
(Cut me some slack! I have't posted a poem in a while, now.)
(Written today.)

Such A Fissure
---------------

Such a fissure demands
this stone to be of entropy,
Despite the cutting seam's
own irregular crumbling.
Yes, despite that fault,
the rock is bending. It
Halves into a third.
And it severs into its
Realities all crystalline
and foreshortened.
Oh, yet from (and yet within)
the gap, a fluid
Is spilled as it flows
from air above.
In this space, water drops
and curves
And floods the impediment
almost concrete.
Yes, downwardly, the liquid
becomes a knife.
Although it is but soothing
of this solidified
Gash. And such a fissure
bisects but only
The artifice of glass.
It seeps as the rain
Into earth's tortured conceit.
Yes, the
Groove does drip onto
truth's counterbalance, onto
Truth's coincidence of stone
and its divide, onto
Mental blood therefore equal
to our own thirst,
Equal to our own
concave drowning.

--------------------------

Leroy

To Be Or Not To Be

Blog post # 121:

Entropic Syrup


Aroma Of Arrogance


Senility Of Circles


Catatonically Clockwise


(My favorite of these is Catatonically Clockwise.)

------------------------------

Poll results:
Which of these tableaux is your favorite to contemplate?

1) Nuclear blast. Black light. Nautilus.

One vote, mine.

2) String. Dynamo. Dried blood.

No votes.

3) Clock. Speedometer. Crumpled paper.

One vote.

4) Punk-rocker. Aspirin. Wine bottle.

Six votes! The winner by a large margin.

5) Butterfly. Meat-cleaver. Protractor.

Two votes.

--------------------------------

New poll: On a scale of 0 to 10, how certain are you that we exist?
0 is absolutely certain we do NOT exist.
10 is absolutely certain we do exist.

--------------------------------

I am certain, I think, that many many people, including likely myself, will be killed within the next couple years when either President Barack or President Sarah starts a full-scale nuclear war.

And if that doesn't happen, I am sure I will lose my health insurance and die of an otherwise treatable disease within the next couple years, anyway.

And since I do not want to get laid anyway, then why should I care about my health and my appearance? Why can't I just enjoy life and eat as much as I am hungry for, say, no matter how fat doing so will make me?

And besides, gaining weight may actually SAVE my life. Say, that in the near future, the new ultra-right Christian regime in America carries out a pogrom against homosexuals. First they might round up all of us who are not married. But when they get one look at my fat self, they will know that, hey, this guy isn't married because he's fat, not because he's gay. And maybe then they will leave me alone.

But then they will kill me anyway when they come for the atheists or the progressives.

-----------------------------------

Proof that God is evil:
God created man, and man created politics.
QED.

By the way, may ALL the politicians just burn in Hell! Damn the assholes!

------------------------------------

No poetry today!
Yay!

Leroy

Apologies To Wind

Blog post # 120:

Cyclically Upended


Underside Of Apparitions



-----------------------------------

(First a poem, then more below.)

Airscrew
---------

Those two wings of a despised void
within them, they
Pivoted about an iridescent fulcrum,
ha. And they
Both curled counterclockwise,
yet in opposition. For,
They floated as all swirling feathers,
as all
Torquey fluids therefore
mathematically circular
And mandalic.
Oh, between their frustums,
This emptiness displayed its
cusps and ribbons. But
It too swirled. However,
it seemed to be vertically
Upended and flowing.
There, the contraption
Swung into cyclic stillness,
rotating forth as
A whirlwind and ascending
as an unimpressive
Bug. Yes, it ascended as
imagination's ghost yet
Hallucinated and alone.
Oh, the thermals did
Become that object.
And skyward, it betrayed
The ground in its gaining.
Yes, its laziness was
Only in its horizontality.
Yet it now slants
And rises unto its collapse
upon cosmos' spectacle
Above it. It rises unto its
collapse again upon
The universe's form overwhelming
and now spinning,
Now asymmetrical.
And despite all, everything's axis
Has achieved existence via such
an impaired artifice,
Via such ambidextrous breath
surely actuated.

-----------------------------

Anagram:

The Gothic Sun

=

Nice Thoughts

-----------------------------

Bible = Buy-Bull

(Sorry, but this word-play is true, I think.)

-----------------------------

Orange seems like such a bland color to me. Yet it is between the colors of red and yellow on the spectrum, and those colors can be quite brilliant. But orange is the color of orange juice, which is tangy. So, maybe orange is a tangy color, if not a brilliant one.

PS: I know, I know, orange can indeed be brilliant. I am just repeating here what I read in a dream.

-----------------------------

In the future, I think it will be so easy to travel about the world -- with super-fast and cheap transport and the easing of travel restrictions -- that the majority of people won't even remember which countries they have visited in their lives.

-----------------------------

Another poem. (Sorry.)

A Spiral Of Slender Disregard
------------------------------

If such a spiral of slender disregard
curves but
Once then turns but twice,
does it foresee
Its angular transposition
upon its own
Conjoining? Ah.
This twisting coil does impurely
Implode yet against its underside,
true. However,
Its breath is cleaved into
its wings as quite
A cursive butterfly.
If such a spiral does lift
To dream of the shadows of
colossal asymmetries,
Will those syrupy apparitions
that are its
Substances become the rotation
of certain bugs?
Yes, into this spinning of a
curled thought,
The spiral is surely as
flavors and string
All flowing rancidly
through our sky,
Through cosmic ellipsoids
containing us
And our equilateral wings
unsurpassed by
The spirals of disregard
shouting intravenously.

--

[Is "rancidly" a word? It should be one.]

------------------------------

Leroy

Scattering Of Things

Blog post # 119:

Infinitely Dimensional Delirium


Melt


-------------------------------

Why does tea taste good cold, and tea tastes good hot, but when it is in the middle at room-temperature, then it tastes terrible?

Hmmmmm?

-------------------------------

Idea for country song:

I'm not a hard-working man.
I take a break whenever I can.
I'm in LOW-GEAR.

No, I'm too lazy to get a job.
I'm such a worthless slob.
I keep going nowhere fast.
This relaxation is meant to last.
I'm in LOW-GEAR.
Yeah, LOW-GEAR [in really deep voice]

--------------------------------

Commercial for anti-social-phobia medicine:

Egg, jackhammer sounds, cracks form in egg, chicken steps out of egg with jackhammer in its wing.
Narrator: "Sometimes you just need a little help coming out of your shell".

[Arrggg. Sorry. I hate Big Pharma. Why would I give them an idea for an ad?]

--------------------------------

A word puzzle. Take a certain 4-letter word. It is the first 4 letters of a 5-letter word. Take a 3-letter word that is a synonym of the 5-letter word. Saying the 4-letter word and then the 3 letter word fast in succession PHONETICALLY gives a 5-letter word that does NOT describe anyone who reads my blog. What are these words?

The 4-letter word, the first 5-letter word, and the 3-letter word all have one syllable each. The final 5-letter word has 2 syllables.

Answer in comments to this blog post.

Hint: The first letter of the 4-letter word is the 9th letter of the title of this blog-post.

---------------------------------

Finally, a poem. (NO! LEROY, NO!)
I wrote this yesterday.


The Puncturing Of Dreams
-------------------------

All, it is punctured,
soiling its anatomy, soiling
Its thoughts with our delirium.
I taste such
Tongues, yes, as they pierce
the very spaces implied
By everything and its
infinite dimensions soothed.

I speak of knives and speak
of flatness. Thus,
All is cleaved, and we are
severed into
These bounded inaccuracies
once human, once
Artificial. Oh,
the swirling truths of our
Presumed existences,
they puncture through
Nothingness and nothing.
Yes, they cut the
Edifices of our psychoses,
cut these introspective
Brains within, within
each dream. Ah, subdued
Are those alphabets
enumerated but still
Un-alphabetical.
And I finally wake to
Jut my imagination
through itself. Yes, I
Do puncture my very will
with whispers,
With screams
stubbornly initiated.

--

[As you must have noticed, this poem and the last poem I posted I have divided each line up into two lines so that the carriage-returns work better. Compare with my older poems I posted to this blog, where line-breaks were uncontrolled by me because the lines were too long.]

---------------------------------------

Leroy

Wince

Blog post # 118:

I made these 3 pictures over the last 5 days.

Equilibrial Partiality


Wronged By Iridescence


Malformed Presumptions


----------------------------------

Okay, a little politics, just a little.

Now I'm referring to the former president as

Gee-Ogre W Bush!

-----------------------

Anagram:

Yo, copulaters!

=

Your poles act.

-----------------------

Finally, a poem:
(Not very original.)


Between Such A Strange Configuration
---------------------

Perpendicular wings of
a tortured butterfly
Sustain my brain within
their intermediacy. Oh,
one wing rises horizontally,
the other wing
Is outstretched vertically.
And I think inside
The middle. Yes, I
contemplate conjectures of
Flight and impediment.
But my thoughts are
Twisted orthogonally into
a grand tableau. Ah,
I surely extrapolate
my disembodiment of
Mental mind from corpse.
And yet, despite
Such peculiar plagiarism,
I am wrapped
In glossy flaps, these
wings of bland beauty.
Yes, I am held amongst
my single consciousness;
For, I sleep in quite a
maddening and
Human chrysalis.
For, I am deprived of
My levitation. Here, I
am contained
And grounded at the
center of solitude's flesh,
Am contained between
such a strange configuration,
Between my very musculature
of this,
My edifice and entropy,
my captivity.

-------------------------

Leroy

Prism Of Words

Blog post # 117:

(I made the first two pictures yesterday, and the last picture today.)

Mediocre Glass


Yet Cone Parts Prism


Meandering Edifice


Note: The middle picture was inspired by an anagram. (See just below.)
Yes, the title came before the image idea.

---------------------------------

Anagram:

Yet cone parts prism.
=
My art's perceptions.

(Note name of middle picture above.)

---------------------------------

Puzzle:
(Some of you have seen this already.)

There are at least two word groups, each group being of FOUR different 3-letter words, where the words are anagrams of each other. The words are not proper nouns or abbreviations, and they would all be acceptable words to use in Scrabble. What two groups (each of four words) are they?

Are there more than two groups of four 3-letter words that are anagrams of each other? (I thought there was only one such group until Kevin Stone and others on the rec.puzzles newsgroup found another such group of words.)

Here is a three-word group: Art, Rat, Tar. But we need four words.

----------------------------------

I am trying to start a movement for writers to write of someone's "limbic system" instead of that someone's heart when talking about the person's emotions and instincts. Why do we talk about the heart in this way in the first place? The heart is just a muscle with blood in it. Talking about the heart as some sort of seat-of-the-soul is cliche and idiotic, I think. The limbic system in the brain is the real source of our emotions and instincts, at least that's what scientist now believe. Yes, people once thought the heart was the source of our emotions, but the science changed. Maybe someday we will find that emotions really derive from the pineal gland or something. But until them, wax poetic about your "limbic mind", I say!

-----------------------------------

At BEST, democracy is only a game, nothing more. Even when it fulfills our ideas of what it should be, it is only about numbers. Imagine a political vote that comes down to only a few voters. Why should almost 50% of the population be completely denied what they want politically simply because of literally a few votes? Hell, the outcomes of elections can literally be a case of life vs death for lots of people. Is it fair to ignore the human rights of the minority over a numbers game? And, as I said, at best, democracy is only a game.

At worst, the CIA or some other shadow group of elites actually decides every political decision in America, anyway.

------------------------------------

Okay, since I am in the mood, I will post a poem. But skip over it if you don't care for my poetry.

(I wrote this yesterday. It was inspired somewhat by the top picture above.)

Beauty Of A Substantive Void
------------------------------

Drawn within the glass nautilus, within this
Spiral of refraction and introspection, I saw
But nothingness and its wires and its threads
Made of emptiness' solidity. I saw amongst these
Shards of silver such intermediacy and mediocrity
Recreated as grand, recreated as the very
Beauty of a substantive void. And upon the
Completion of that coil, there the cloth radiated
Outwardly twice opposed. And as ribbon and colored
Currents exploding, those streamers became
Their origination and attachment to the oneness
Of zeroness of that clear spiral abutting.

Oh, drawn was light amazed by its observance.
Yet we notice such hideousness in these winds,
In the wings of curving exoskeletons. Oh,
We only halve our humanness at this moment
That lemniscate conjoins with spiral, that
Imagination conjoins with plagiarized uneasiness,
Conjoins with conforming rotation exceptionally
Dissident.

------------------------------

Leroy