Wretched Futility

Blog post # 225:
(225 = 3*5*5*3 = 15*15.)

Strangely External


Vindictive Temptation


Defiance Refuted


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

An anagram:

Cylinders coil.
=
Ids only circle.

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

Two poems, written yesterday and today:

Asinine Death
----------

Death is weirdly wrapped
about my torment.
And its evil dream encases me,
permeates me.
But I will soon die and fail.
I will be
Vanquished from all
transcendence. Yet
Asinine death will be
my violation. In this
Rape, I will be eviscerated
by every obscenity.
And virtue will betray me,
quite. Death,
However, will be
my enslavement. It is
To become its hatred
for me, for us. And
It will destroy us
and our purposes, yes.
Oh, death is the victor
of our destiny.
It is the damnation
we fear and the
Futility we vindicate.
Ah, death is
Its sicknesses and its poisons
each implied
By the extremes of
our ignorance. And its
Triumphs are eternal;
its temptations
Are fluid within our corpses;
its injustices
Are insistent and hideous
and nihilistically rotten.

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

Wretched Geometries
----------------

Wretched geometries
enshroud my thoughts,
Then they puncture me sadly.
But they demand
My fear, and they
deceive my suffering.
Yet in their negation,
they are conjured.
But such shapes never
refute their denial.
They surely endure
that calm, however. Ah,
Those wretched geometries
are my suicide.
They are my
meaninglessness maligned. Yes,
I am only inferior within them.
I am
Their illusion and
their stupidity both
Soon to repulse me
amorphously, defiantly.

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

Leroy

Wondrous Condemnation

Blog post # 224:
(224 = 2*2*2*2*2*7.)

Themselves Almost Stale


Worsening Godliness


Haunting Obliviousness


Narcissistic Minima


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

No anagrams today.
I do have poll-results, though.

Question: Which of these do you hate most?

"Injustice" wins with 5 votes.
"Deception" comes in next with 3 votes.
"Stupidity" gets 1 vote.
"Crookedness", "Disease", "Bad Luck", "Violence", and "Hatred" each get 0 votes.

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

Two poems today, written yesterday and today.

Of The Oculus With Occlusion
-------------------

It is not an eye
within this sphere. It is
A hole of colors
all descending beneath it.
And before that egg-like thing,
a smaller sphere
Of transparent glossiness
hovers upon the right.
But it too obscures
such imagination. It too is
The eclipse of
ambiguous haunting. Oh, inside
All juxtaposition of
the oculus with occlusion,
Never are these paradoxes
to invoke their illusion.
But the geometry itself
is misinterpreted, yes.
And it is not an eye,
yet it is seen again
By its own vantage.
Ah, in the purple
And yellow and cyan,
this conjugation is
Formed from its obliviousness.
But it remains
Blind and asleep, quite.
And it becomes such a
Wound of our swirling,
becomes such a gash
Of our utmost observation.

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

Of Our Condemnation
----------------

Of our condemnation,
we are quiet and despised.
Oh, in our hateful annihilation,
we will be
The very evil we suffer.
Yet our ignorance and
Atrocity is the damnation
we are to excrete.
Yes, of our condemnation,
we vanish within
Such minima. And
that evil is to become
A dream of falsehoods
and their
Authoritarianism.
We have been cursed
From the sins of
our tormentors. Thus
We are surely to die
in blindness and horror.
We are to be destroyed
by that unjust resentment.
And we are to be
murdered by the idiocy
Of all minds.
We are then to be
Condemned, are then
to be but only bigots,
Are to be but only fools
of this narcissism
We concede to our
unworthiness itself incapable.

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

Leroy

Coming Hell

Blog post # 223:
(223 = a prime, maybe.)

Illusion Of A Curlicue


Imprecise Nuance


Something Intermediate


Insistent Poison


Extroversion Invoked


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

No anagrams or poetry today. Screw that.

My mood is better. But I still feel hopeless whenever I have small moments of sanity.
This is the fact: Either you are totally depressed and anxious, or you are totally psychotic.
Anyone with any intelligence at all and who knows the facts has NO hope for our future.
We ARE doomed.

Well, the most evil people amongst us aren't doomed. They will do quite well, thank you.

But anyone with any sense of justice will be rounded up and tortured in the coming world.

Society has already achieved a dystopian state, I know. (With the bad economy, overreaching surveillance, wars based on lies, mass-stupidity, grave injustices, nuclear accidents, etc, etc.) But things are about to get much worse, infinitely worse.

Then we will all kill ourselves, and then go to Hell for doing so.

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

Leroy

Hopeless

Blog post # 222:
(222 = 2*37*3.)

Madness Withheld


Pathos Secreted


Inflected Levitation


Radioactive Tangle


Concavity Unremembered


(You can tell I was depressed when I made these, probably.)

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

Only one anagram today:

Plural I times.
=
As multiplier

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

I woke up last night freaked out and crying (and I am not one to cry).
I know there is no hope for the future. Things will only get worse and worse and worse.

The economy will totally collapse (it has just begun to). Climate-change will reach its tipping-point. There will be more wars based on lies. There will be more terrorism (also based on lies). There will be unprecedented disease and famines. There will be super-surveillance and mind-control. We will run out of energy. Fascism and genocide will run rampant world-wide.

Here in the US, the best we can hope for is that Obama is reelected, which is horrible because he has been almost as bad as Bush in so many ways. But almost all the Republicans running for president would be INFINITELY worse than GW Bush as president. Many of them would impose a far-right theocracy in America, where homosexuals and children who talk back to their parents and people who cuss are rounded up and killed. For certain, progressives (and atheists and and Muslims and Jews who don't convert to evangelical Christianity) will be literally rounded up and done away with. But Obama has pissed off so many Americans, I think ANYONE could beat him, no matter how frightening and evil they are.

I have no hope.

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

Poem, written today:

In The Concavity Of My Sadness
--------------------

Inside the eclipse, inside
this ellipsoidal illusion
Of cones and circles and space,
there, a partiality
Is transcendent but hopeless.
And I too am
Empty. I too fear
the inevitability of an
Asinine fate.
For, inside that glob of void
And glassy superstitions,
I am withheld; I am
Afloat within such amnesia,
within such
Determinism. Oh,
inside the shadows each
Inept, I dwell
in the concavity of
My sadness.
And here I am oblivious but
Mentally afraid.
Yet in my stranding, I endure
The geometries.
Yet in my strangeness, I
Perish and then am uncertain;
then I hide
Inside an eclipse unremembered,
thus drowned,
Thus hated.

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

Leroy

Fatal Becoming

Blog post # 221:
(221 = 13*17.)

Audaciously Unidirectional


Unsubstantially Massive


Fatalism Slanted


Sad Grandiosity


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

Anagrams:


Spit rays
=
It sprays.

--

Turning a cool wicked screw
=
Drawing counterclockwise

--

Mortal stone shouts hate...
=
as lost hot meteor haunts.

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

Two poems, written yesterday and today.
The second one ("Unobtained Butterfly") reflects the way I feel today.

Fiery Stone
-----------

Slanted, the fiery stone
is mortal. Yet
It fulfills its thunder,
and it fails its
Carelessness.
But its explosion is eternal.
And its hatred is whole.
It flows, yes, from
The upper-left unto
such slanting, unto such
Tilted space.

And it is implied by
its oneness. For, as that
Spherical truth, it is
both dangerous and endangered.
But it slants, ha,
within its descent, within
Its fall otherwise entwined.
However, it is quite
Unequal to its own inertia.
Yet its poison
Is this damnation;
it is this injustice becoming
All fate, becoming
all fatality of sorrow and
Flame and forcefulness
thus made in these
Geometries' fantastic colliding.

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

Unobtained Butterfly
----------------

Death implies its psychoses.
It encircles and retakes
Our sorrow, yet it becomes it.
And death has
Rendered this larva
amongst a sad cocoon as
Nothing. Surely, death
has denied the bug its beauty
Otherwise to be.
Ah, the butterfly is nonexistent,
Yes. And its abstinence
is its loss. For, never
Are such wings to
transcend their grandness.
Never is the redemption
of this insect to
Obtain its realization.
No, the caterpillar has died.
And its silk and sickness
are its only solace.
Perhaps that lepidopteran
was to achieve its
Godliness. But it failed.
Yes, it has unjustifiably
Been betrayed by
its mortality. It has wrongly
Been frustrated by its fate,
despite its irradiance,
Despite its apparition
almost its destiny. And
It is of emptiness now, quite.
It is but finite
And diminished and
demented and tritely lacking
In its sleep; it is lacking
in its dreams forgotten,
In its life unexpressed
and viciously stilled.

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

Leroy

Perpendicular Globs Slide

Blog post # 220:
(220 = 2*11*5*2.)

Geometry Undergone


Partway Irreconcilable


Counterclockwise Archetype


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

The anagram for today:


Perpendicular globs slide.
=
Or spilled cube angles drip.

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

Poll!

Which of these do you hate most?:

Injustice
Crookedness
Disease
Stupidity
Bad Luck
Deception
Violence
Hatred

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

Or maybe you hate my poetry most!

One poem, written today:


Violent Semicircle
--------------

Halved is this
irradiant process:
outwardly
Unto only the right.
And it is a violent
Semicircle; truly. But
its globs are projected
As such injustice, as
such hatred wronged by
Everything. Oh,
that imbalance is divisive
And imagined, yes.
Yet its gloss is made from
Crescents, from archetypes.
It is propelled
In severed rotation partway
and thus
Sideways and therefore
weirdly but uglily.

Halved is this spray,
is this spit of quite
An explosive crookedness.
Then it flees
Into counterclockwise
nonexistence, ha.
It flies very
asymmetrically, and so
It is bent by its
unusualness. And so
It is lost to its reality;
it is lost
To its inequalities
each protruding
Divergently and
irreconcilably as these
Finite hemispheres
of our differing,
Of our careless biases
(maybe halved).

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

Leroy

Oblivious

Blog post # 219:
(219 = 3*73.)

Intermediate Maximum


This Hemispherical Sorrow


Dreams Of Circumferences


Deprived Of Denial


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

One anagram today:

Our Dissection
=
Is cut or is done.

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

In a much earlier post, I ranted about why I don't want to wear glasses, even though I need to.

But why should I indeed wear glasses anyway?

Because if you are a "four-eyes", then you can...
.. four-see.. things..

(Har har)
-----------------------------

I am not philosophical anymore. When I was younger, I would contemplate everything from the nature of reality and dreams to mathematics. But now my thoughts are dead. Am I mindless as a result of age, or maybe because of the (legal) pharmaceuticals I take, or for some other reason?

In any case, I cannot impress you all with anything important to say today, despite that at least a couple of you want me to post more philosophies.
Maybe in later posts, hopefully soon, I won't be so numb in the brain.

But now, I am oblivious.
Now, I do not ponder.

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

Poetry! Two poems, written 2 days ago and yesterday.


Its Underside Toppled
-----------------

Of prongs and flaps,
an oversized underside is
Fluidly flung; and it is
wrapped and warped, but it is
Intermediately edgewise,
but it is internally horizontal,
But it is violently unusual
aside from its nonexistent
Whole. Ah, and of that
spiky spiral, this uncertainty
Is not knotted.
But it is overlapped and
Weirdly beautiful
and beautifully wired although
Uglily strung. Ha,
these prongs and flaps
Do intersect and flow,
thus being curvilinear
And incorrect within
their maxima, within
Their minima all arcing.
However, the
Hemisphere is
gaping and gouged. And its
Putridity is its rust.
Yet it glistens never, but
Still it is corrosive.
For, its coarse smoothness
Is its violation;
it is its underside toppled
Then enclosed by such rot,
then enclosed by such
Poisoned suddenness
of prongs and flaps elsewhere
Becoming thorns,
elsewhere betraying that loss,
Betraying that dull disintegration.

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

Annulus Of A Weird Hole
----------------

An annulus of a weird hole
-- a hole rotated, round,
Oddly placed and shaped --
it punctures that oval,
And it penetrates
that stupid disk of such
Frustrating dreams.
But the ring is unequal
To its gap. Oh, I saw it
in the alphabetization
Of cylinders. Quite, ha.
Yet the annulus is
Undescribed and unbeautiful.
Its ugliness,
However, is fantastic.
And its strangeness is
Both opaque and transparent.
Yes, it is both
Elliptical and curved
but never equilateral.
Thus, it intrigues my
random forethoughts (all
Forgotten) with this
misalignment. But I
Ignore its unresponsiveness.
I do ignore its
Coincidental hole,
ignore that circumference of
Its lacking. I ignore the
weirdness of an annulus;
Although it transcends
such nonexistence and becomes
An impressive loop,
a loop rotated, round,
Oddly placed and shaped,
oddly and awkwardly actual,
Awkwardly angular,
actually distinctive
But not drawn of
metal or water or suddenness.

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

Leroy

Lackluster

Blog post # 218:
(218 = 2*109.)

I will make you all suffer with this dreadful post.

Plurally Reverberant


Mathematics Not Numbered


Otherwise Not Wrung


Parabolic But Folded


(Ugg.)
-----------------------------

Speaking of ugg. Get this!...

After you pass-away , you go to a greater...
die-mension...

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

(Speaking of speaking of stuff...)

Speaking of dimensions,

"Dimension" is an anagram of "mini-nodes".

More crappy anagrams:

Sad when wetting real flowers...
=
and sweltering weather flows.

--

Okay, why diminish her?
=
Oh, hey, I shrink midway.

--

To turn as hope
=
Oh, rotate, spun

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

Poll results!

Which of these do you miss the most from what used to be in my blog?

8 votes total:
Puns/word-play wins with 3 votes.
Philosophy gets 2 votes.
Anagrams and math puzzles each get one vote.
Politics and word puzzles each get no votes.

(I'm kind of shocked that math puzzles beat word puzzles, even if just by one vote.)

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

Two poems: Written 3 days ago and 2 days ago.


Contraction Of Contradiction
-------------------

The contraction of
contradiction (un-contradicted)
Diminishes, and it yet is absurd,
and it yet is
Abstract, and it yet is
un-rotated but still made, but
Still identical to its sequence,
to its sphericalness
Oddly illusory and algorithmic.
It is surely dampened
Regarding such valuations.
And it is damned
Regarding its positioning.
But that isosceles blob
Does billow. It does
truncate all procession
Inwardly against a vain finitude.

Oh, the lengthwise roundness
of this multiplication,
It is both encircled and
paraphrased. Although
Such words are exact
and condensed. Yes,
They shrink upwardly
but not leftward.
And they curve unto
the corner of triads.
Oh, quite, they coil and
are not spiraled. Quite,
Each meaningless trapezoid
is drawn within,
And each thought is
drawn again into
Its reverberation
coursing beautifully
So as to be that
equation of inequality, that
Equation of etceteras
implied but explicitly plural.

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

Inside Every Sideways Mistakenness
----------------------

I forewent such games
of spectra, of numerals
Without number, of numbers
yet counted. And
I did not anger my imagination
with these grids
We frustrate and
strategically embed. But, yes,
I did embed those games
in their completion. And
Then I multiplied by
consistency and continuation.
Then I summed by
rows and their rotation.
Ah, I then enumerated
that depiction of
Abrupt existences.
But the games are
Still to be drawn. And
they are devoid of
Insanity's permutations.
They are configured again
Into dreams, and the dreams
are contained inside
Every sideways mistakenness
of this conformity,
Inside anew any
sideways mistakenness
Of this placement upon all,
of this peculiarity
Elsewhere mathematical
but never trigonometric,
But never incorrectly delusional,
never wrongly
Lackluster.

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

Leroy

Isosceles Things

Blog post # 217:
(217 = 7*31.)

Coarse Divergence


Repellent Inclusion


Isosceles


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

A couple of anagrams:


Dire poison ends.
=
Do depression in.


(This one is grim.)

--

I hid or enclosed.
=
Hold inside core.

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

Two poems, written yesterday and today:


Eradicated Cone
-------------

An eradicated cone
flees from itself, becoming and
Betraying its centrifuge
with the subterfuge of
That repellant disintegration.
Such matter
Distances its truth from
its reality. And it
Fulfills its inadequacy, quite,
then it dissolves
Coarsely and
very divergently. Then it
Is eradicated and made
inconsistent. Yet its
Chunks are freed and
its blood is massive.
And this amnesia of cones
is forgotten, although
It is severed and segmented
so as to exist.

But that flow of
substances outwardly is
Correctly wrong.
It behaves abruptly, and it
Despises all inertia.
Oh, the cone is to be
Its loss; it is to be
its avoidance. However,
It somehow is senile and insane.
Yes, it somehow
Is eradicated; and somehow it is
vanquished regarding
Its death; it is vanquished
regarding its sicknesses,
Regarding its dreams
of torrid damnation, regarding its
Delusions of torrential finitude,
finitude utterly
Significant, utterly entwined
by hated explosiveness.

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

Of Unrealistic Swirling
-----------------

A swirling reality of
unrealistic swirling, this is
A loop embedded amongst
a pair of disks. This is
The counterbalance of
partiality imposed and impure.
It is the counterintuitive merging
of counterclockwise
Cloth; it is the merging of
one colorful paradox. Oh,
Encircled are these circles spun.
But they obtain
Their obtuseness via
intent's isosceles extremes. Yes,
That gaseous viscosity
rotates about all imagery.
But it is not recreated,
despite its recurrence.
Yes, no, it does hold
in this arc its writhing.
It does hold in its solitude
our churning duplication.
And it does cling to its
drowning, quite. Yes,
It is suffocated by its
faulty but fulfilling swirling,
By its transparency strung
unto that inclusion.

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

Leroy

Oh, Been Abysmal

Blog post # 216:
(216 = 2*2*2*3*3*3 = 6*6*6,
The Beast!.)

Almost A Fulcrum


Burned By Rot


Unremembered Fission


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

Anagrams, if you can call them that:

Oh, been abysmal.
=
shabby lame one

(That refers to me, I guess.)

--

I mental-sag
=
as a melting.

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

If humanity devolves because we lose our BO, this would be the...
de-scent of mankind.

(Ugg, super-ugg.)
-------------------------------

Damn it, oh, damn it, I'm depressed.
First, I have a sense of doom about the future (starting with the almost inevitable default by the US government in a couple days, continuing with SO MUCH MORE horrible things happening over the near and far futures).

Then, on top of that, I am depressed because my life is basically worthless -- worthless both to society and to myself. I USED to have dreams for the future, but now I don't even have the desire or the ability to fulfill any of them. I used to think I was so amazing, that I had so many talents and potential. Now, I know that I am nothing but a failure. Even most losers have more to show for their lives than I do. At least they have shitty jobs and ugly significant-others. But me? Not even.

I know I've told you all this before. And I know it is getting quite old. But I can't even come up with a better thing to write about in my blog, I am such a failure. And, damn it, what am I supposed to do about it? No one I talk to is much help. Or I won't allow them to help me, is more like it, because I am too lazy to do anything about my situation.

And the coming collapse for all of humanity doesn't help things either, since I couldn't do anything about that even if I wasn't lazy.

I wish people -- including me, and especially those in power -- would just STOP BEING SO STUPID!

I mean, is there any reason to not be lazy anymore if we are all going to burn up from climate-change or nuclear war anyway?

I don't know. Maybe my lack of knowledge of the future is part of my problem, though it definitely isn't all of it.

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

Poem, written yesterday:
(This poem is highly unoriginal. But it fits in with my mood, given the coming collapse.)

Damned Reality
-----------

This damned reality is
quite a hellish blob.
It expands and transects,
then it engulfs me.
Thus it is my dream
and its froth. It is
The vile imagination of
such meaning, of such
meaninglessness endured.
For, into
That molten steam,
we are singed and
Viciously unremembered.
But our hatred
Encloses us within
its fission. It burns
Our truth, yet
we still rot. Ah, damned
Is our sanctum
once conjured from purpose.
But now we do protrude
unto our punishment.
Ah, soon we will be
only apathetic and
Countered. Soon
we will fail in our triumphs;
We will fail in our sorrow;
we will fail in our
redemption never gained.

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

Leroy

How Is Such A Wad?

Blog post # 215:
(215 = 5*43.)

Illusion's Suffering


Psychotic Remorse


Quadrupled Glow


Elsewhere Sideways


(Ho hum)
---------------------------

A loving anagram:

My Dear
=
Dreamy

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

An anagram puzzle:

Yes, wad is...
(1 word)

(Answer in comments.)

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

Any of lots of different places is...
manywhere..

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

If you design arches with interesting surfaces, you engage in...
Arch-i-Texture...

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

Two poems, written yesterday and today:


Failed Translucency
----------------

Withered so are
the quadrupled annuli. They
Paraphrase quite a
butterfly-like paradox. And
They each drip from
their topsides unequally. They
Drip the waters of
imagined pus, of mentality.
Oh, they form every fourth
of those two wings.
But their asymmetry is
tangential yet only
Solitary.
Yes, this thing
does not fly, nor
Does it glow.
However, it is inert and
Intended by my own stupidity.
Ah, it is indeed
Beautiful and superstitious
within its withering,
Within its
poetic counterbalance of such
Glass, of such colorful loops
conjoined into a
Doubling of doubling,
conjoined into a
Failed translucency
we do dream, that we do
Draw quite expectedly
upon this secreted light.

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

Within The Underside Of Everything
---------------------

External to a spheroid
of oblate sidewaysness,
A spiral hovers parallel
and rightward. But
It too is vertical, is gaping.
And the whole
Of it forgets its whole;
it forgets the void
Between spiral and spheroid.
And it foregoes
That lavender for its mauve,
for its coil
Afloat and ironic
and smooth. Ah, yet
Within the
underside of everything, this
Composition is angled
and ascending. It
Holds its stillness there
in such reality.
And it wraps emptiness with
such droplets
Of knotted poetry.
Oh, externally, the
Spiral flies and is
surely levitated unto
Horizontality's massiveness.
Although it is
Curved and crescentic
and known by our sight; it
Is known by the existence
beneath entirety, by
The existences endured
and above us elsewhere.

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

Leroy

A Tangled Nightmare

Blog post # 214:
(214 = 2*107.)

Depletion Of Meaninglessness


Incorrectly Spilled


Tangled Virtue


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

Anagrams return! (at least temporarily)


Looping Or Wrung
=
Our Long/Wrong Pi

--

Trance's Nexus
=
Scan next ruse.

--

Untangle Shreds
=
Lengths Asunder

--

I tangle.
=
Gelatin
=
A Tingle

(That last one is dirty. Snicker, snicker.)

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

I am becoming more and more convinced that "reality" is only an illusion. How could it not be?
Everything is so horrible. Reality must just be some kind of joke.
There is no balance between good and evil in this world. No, evil predominates greatly. So, it all seems to me to be only a drama, a computer-controlled dream.

But still, I am concerned about the outcome of that dream/drama, as if all is actually real.
Should I put my energies into waking up instead of into trying to make the world a better place, since the world probably doesn't exist anyway?

Not that I invest much energy in making this world a better place, anyway.

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

Two poems, written 2 days ago and yesterday:


Almost The Strangest Of Cones
---------------------

Imagination tapers to a
rightward apex. Stupidly,
Its underside is billowy
and bulbous. But its top
Is of flaps and illusions.
Ah, and both its bottom
And topside converge
therefore thusly -- yet in that
Point, all suddenness is foreseen,
yes. Yes, in that
Animosity coursing
against nothingness, all truncation
Is our abstinence, is
our dreams resented but
Never remembered.
For, imagination is surely
A narrowing thing,
almost the strangest of cones.
Otherwise, it is
narcissistic and meaningless, although
It is wrongly alphabetized
and correctly made sad.
Oh, the cusp is
thin and flat, but still
It widens unto the left.
However, it does not
Express its explosiveness.
Ah, it only becomes
Truthful then tempting,
then it tempers its
Triangularity; then it
transforms and remains halved;
Then it remains equal to
such clumping, equal to such
Plagiarism justifiably derived
from its own depletion.

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

Askew And Diagonally Wrong
---------------------------

A vile blob -- it rests askew
and is diagonally wrong
Above this angry void.
It tapers unto its pinching,
Rendering that flow
downwardly, rightward, away.
And the fluid spreads
upon such emptiness, becoming
Outward and beautiful.
But that beauty is evil.
It is vile, as a blob,
and an ellipsoid above.
Yet, into the substances
conveyed, all
Incorrectly spilled drink
is formed from quite a lobe.
Yes, from quite a tumor,
our human sap
Drips sideways and
distantly, betraying the
Orthogonality otherwise
nonconforming. Ah,
Dripping obliquely, such
syrup is drowned, is drawn as
It was, is drawn as
our tangled cliches now
Untied, now linear,
now vile and hateful and
Untrue but surely adored,
but surely moronically so.

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

Leroy

Superfluously Dull

Blog post # 213:
(213 = 3*71.)

Improbability Untied


Mismatched Equilibrium


Dull Excretion


Conjured Thirst


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

No anagrams today! I'm sick of anagrams. Maybe I'll post some later, but maybe not.

A new poll!

As most of you might know, my blog is evolving. Some things I used to do in it I don't do anymore.

Which of these do you miss the most from what used to be in my blog?

Anagrams
Politics
Puns/Word-Play
Philosophy
Word Puzzles
Math Puzzles

I'll try to bring back, at least on occasion, whatever wins this poll.

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Two poems, both just barely acceptable. Written yesterday and today.

A Sphere Atypically Spherical
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Such a sphere is
atypically spherical. Ah, it
Is quite a glob, surely.
But its loxodromes are
Specious, and its
circumferences are round. Oh,
In its quadrants, the
arcs are misnumbered but
Differing. And they are
counted incorrectly, yet
Still they are irradiant
from this one apex
Upon the lower-right.
And, yes, those arcs spread
Unto their vanishing,
unto their inequalities
Within a sphere betrayed.
Oh, such a sphere is
Forgotten regarding its
amorphousness. For, its
Shape is neither
cylindrical nor pitied. Oddly,
It does curve throughout
its mismatched fourths,
And then it is balanced.
Then, again,
It is atypically spherical.
And it remains.
And it returns, but only
convexly, but only
Into its circularity
fleeting superfluous.

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Counterintuitive Within This Gash
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Cut with dullness,
that groove is quite
A beautiful wound.
It is sliced into this
Spheroid, and it is
grotesque in its inwardness.
For, those knives are
only slabs, but
They are also thorns
of our thirst. Thus,
They sever all
blubbery convexity with
Such meaninglessness.
And then they are to
Yet be dull; then
they are to secrete
The pus of their
uncertainty, of their
Stupidity surely askew
but never vain.

Cut with flatness protruding
into insignificance,
The bulb is conjoined
with a disk, is conjoined
With glass and its shards
rendered diagonally. But
Vertically, yes,
the knives do coil and curve,
Then they rest and ooze,
and still they
Are dull. Still,
they are counterintuitive
Within this gash,
within the conjuring of
Juices and lipids extracted
and resented, within
The conquering of
a spheroid once dull, once
Stained and obtuse
or obviously satiated.

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Leroy

As A Nightmare May

Blog post # 212:
(212 = 2*53*2.)

Sans Cylinders


Encircled By Semicircles


Syrupy Invocation


Dream Of Anagrams



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Speaking of anagrams...


I breathe scent in -- ...
=
entices the brain.

--

Flying so now...
=
of only wings.

--

I hate my anagrams!...
=
as a nightmare may.

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A smart redneck is an...
intellect-ya'all....

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Poll results!

Which would you rather eat right now?

The winner is "Pie", with 6 votes.
"Bacon" received 2 votes.
"Vegan burrito" and "Cheese" received no votes.

Thanks for voting.

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Poem, written yesterday.

An Odd Hippocampus
--------------

An odd hippocampus
knots its arc through this
Ambiguous space. And
it bends quite conformingly
Unto retrograde and reniform
thoughts, unto such
Memories of helices and their
Cater-cornered emotions
all spiraled.

But before it and beyond it,
a second thing of
Substantive curving
convulses and seizes and
Then does envelop
my dissected mind.

Oh, yet in my
odd hippocampus, I am illiterate,
But illegitimately so, yes.
Here, I taper
And tangle and do invoke
that cloth of madness.
Yes, here I invoke
that asininity of
My own sleep. .....
Still, my brain is
Segmented but
encircled by semicircles.
Ha, it is surely to float and fly
And yet descend.
Still, it is to betray its
Very imbecility;
it is to betray its corpus callosum
And its beauty. It is
to transit its syrupy shards
Anew, then be severed
then be parabolically attune to,
And paradoxically proud of,
its crescents; it is to
Again intend the
vanquishing of its innards,
Its saddened innards
imperviously mislead.

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Leroy