Quadrilateral colonies
Lucy Tonic
Lucy Tonic
Nov 26, 2011

Once upon a time
There was a man
In an apartment
With flesh-colored walls
And a perfect view
Of skyscrapers
And rooftops
He has a brother
In a jail
With a perfect view
Of warehouses
And factories
Cover to cover
He reads magazines
And newspapers
And he likes two
Sugar cubes
In his regular cup
He doesn't worry
About ends
It's just progress
And we've all
Got to bend
Less the world breaks
If the bomb comes
It'll come in a neat
Little package
And someone
Will build new
Quadrilateral colonies
For two

Ménage was a clever boy
scholarly pursuits
brought us lots
of joy
most things being equal
I liked him





in that quadrilateral
Jan 21, 2014

currently stuck
in that quadrilateral
I'm supposed to be
externally reasoning from

eyes pierced into the ever quadrilateral brightness.
Wei-Qi Ooi
Wei-Qi Ooi
Jan 10, 2013      Jan 12, 2013

She sits there,
frozen like a statue,
fingers apart,
typing on the running technology.

Glossy eyes beneath her ever clear glasses,
as I watched her I wonder,
have we been consumed by lifeless objects?
is this our future?

Sitting lifelessly on the other consumer of our life,
only moving to adjust her glasses,
the girl sits there,
eyes pierced into the ever quadrilateral brightness.

The feeling of regret,
it illuminated the vicinity from the sitting girl,
yet I am doing the same,
writing this poem.

the quadrilateral
Robert Szankowski
Robert Szankowski
Oct 23      Oct 23

We keep on naming the babies
     all the names
     we already know
          and nothing happens.  

Everything circles around,
     drifting together,
                              swimming apart,
     combined and remixed
          into hip hop parades crawling from
          the black and white past
          into the color that exploded
          from Hiroshima's song demanding
          a bended knee from Apollo,
                the quadrilateral
                digest inside
                the platonic dialogue
                climbing the fire escape
                towards Mars.

And Blake is still
making the divine image
out of the human form
as if we are martyrs
all burning together
with a single yawn
waiting to sleep together
in the orgy between the sky.

We dream
     and have no glory,
waiting for the next
     where we will not remember
          as we wake again
          to a new light of dawn
          with a name already known.

Steve D'Beard
Steve D'Beard
Dec 28, 2012      Dec 29, 2012

I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution

some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand

a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good

If nothing else has come from this
I now
[so as not to lose]

K = p/q over 2
K = ab – sin Ø

[are the formulas to use]

inspired by those festive drink fuelled debates which are lengthy and complex on simple non-life changing matters like this one... and left their crazy mathematics on a beach for a dog walker to ponder over
Tommy Johnson
Tommy Johnson
Jun 27, 2014

Aborigines in the Australian outback  
Among starving dingoes

A drug deal going on behind the bowling alley
And a butterfly knife waiting to be put into someones gut

Show some skin
Then maybe you will get somewhere at the customer service desk
Buyer beware, consumer keep cautious
Lay waste to that place and get your money back

They sold you an amphibian and told you it was a marsupial
The clerk wrote your inconvenience off as null

Off in Puerto Rico there's a cockfight
Pass the bug replant
Dos cervezas por favor
It's a steel cage grudge match
Brought to you by the courtesy of some man who's name I cannot pronounce
I got my invitation to this thing in a basket of tropical fruit
Someplace near substructure homes

I see a man in a bandanna looking at me
He turned out to be a free lance astronomer who has a thesis on starry quadrilaterals in the sky
He thought by betting on the bigger rooster he would hit pay dirt
But it was I who met pay day when I bet on the smaller, faster one

The astronomer had so much hate in his eyes I thought his corneas were going to burst
Be pulled out a blade and chased after me and all my winnings with the intent to puncture my torso and pillage my pockets

But had to go see a man about a horse named "Nunya"
Luckily I got away clean to tall the tale

framed in an open quadrilateral,
Sam Hawkins
Sam Hawkins
Apr 15, 2013      Apr 16, 2013

What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.

What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had long taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.

What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.

Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.

And what was this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn head gesture,
a thank you for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say  
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?

Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.

That morning, with the last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in an open quadrilateral,
held its position.

written and posted a few hours before the Boston Marathon Bombing, Monday April 15th, 2013
Those darling quadrilateral crystals
Clemence Huet
Clemence Huet
Apr 8, 2012

I'd been trying to write a poem
Just one fucking poem
But he said
Just fuck around
Swallow down a bowl full of squares
Let’s play games with each other’s minds
Spend a night lost in a house of cards
Where the joker cackles despite your begging
A reminder of what I could do without
Shouting at the world from the white pavilion
You suckers!
With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out
Gagging on a lover’s loneliness
All I see is your undergarments crying for attention
With a liquor solace barely down your throat

Eighteen silver blades
Smile at me with their perfect teeth
One to mark each year that past
A nineteenth will not be necessary
Ready to drag
Like the man trailing his head on a string
Across the surgeon’s winking knife
Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter
Anxious to mingle with my flesh
I’ve already scrubbed in
The survival rate looks dismal
The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips
Down - the noose around my neck

He sat across the room in plaid
Remarked upon the crosshatch of red
That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh
Like loops of raspberry liquorice
Seeping out sticky tears
He misses handling the vegetables
Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours
Well, I’ve a mélange of my own
A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office
Stored in a heart shaped box
To swallow down like jelly beans
I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush

Death’s been dancing on my doorstep
Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table
Head in hand, foot in grave
There’ll be no morning migraine
Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision
Swept up from beneath the climbing frame
Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress
Coughing up the sand in my throat
That I emptied from the egg-timer
Those darling quadrilateral crystals
Blissful in their ignorance  
Disturbing my quiet complacency
Drowned in a glass of tomato juice
That I poured from my skull
Death holds my hand in the dark
And I whisper to pass on the message
Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow

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