"euclidean" poems
You do the math and I'll provide the irrationals,
as I tend to cling to panic in the asymmetry of life.
In this Twenty-First century women still suffer
from laws streaming out of councils of men.
These are not self-stabbing heroines,
they do not ask the heavy deluge of derision.
They are faced with laws stemming from an abbatoir,
from men who wish to usurp the birthright.
Men who have become strangers to their own mothers,
men whose ***** dispense a fouled milk,
men who deserve an **** ultrasound colonoscopy.
So, I beg you to balance the inequality of the equation,
gather our sisters in this non-Euclidean space:
this is one we solve by inspection!
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
Is there an order?
In there an approximation of pi
circling our first awkward flirtations?
Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I
caress the curvature of your spine?
Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the
first time our lips met?
Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate
love making?
A quadratic formula for the shameful
discarding of punched in picture frames?
Is there a golden ratio that best expresses
hurried apologies and frantic entanglements
between our sheets?
I know for certain there was
a simple subtraction
on the day your tears added up everything
and finally said goodbye.
Some would say there is order in this
chaos disguised as order disguised as
chaos
Continually debating pattern recognition
or butterfly effects
But I’d like to think
We were more subtle than that
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
Gwen Elison
Southern Utah University
Elliptic Parallel Postulate Haiku
I am a point P
I want a parallel please!
Oh, there’s none for me.
Hyperbolic Parallel Postulate Haiku
I am a point P
There so many parallels
At least 2 for me!
Euclidean Parallel Postulate
I am a point P
Elliptic? Hyperbolic?
No, just 1 for me!
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC
Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.
2.1k
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Beyond cascading screams in a melodically honed vibration,
Within a fading abyss of infinitesimal separation,
A dreamscape of a constant creation, so vivid by design,
An interesting compilation to the manifestations of my mind,
The psyche demands a certain control and designation,
A tether to the super consciousness without a single deviation.
But as we sail away on waves of cosmic revelation,
To travel the universe for a more profound contemplation not quite Euclidean in nature.
But as a product of Sol, there is a certain elemental configuration,
That fuels the intent of the most colorful dreams,
Bathed in the warmth we call divine,
I have seen solar systems and even far beyond,
But that was only in my mind,
As dreams are harder to navigate when it is difficult to see them straight.
One does not debate such pointless substrate.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Meaning
f
a
l
l
I
n
g
like sparrows in silent wind
like leaves in seasonal flux
again and again….
into the violent dirt
inflamed mud
where we pity the worms
and their empires of clay and mortar
a pomegranate a jewelled pagoda
moving and centralised
cyclic and stagnant.
Everywhere, I do not see
directed untowards
magnetic poles.
Agni-metic people.
The sparrows song
in underwater caverns
startles ripened ears
(wrinkled, warn, and walled)
between dogmatic slumbers…
ertras, I can hear you
»»»»» —————————————-» [you]
where?
f’-> : {inside euclidean halls}
meaning, falling
passageways toward
nothing. [frameworks]
-oliver and jonte
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
BTW vir means man in the old Latin
from which
the nomenclature
of Catholic Christianity rose up,
curia and cives and synoikia by Roman ****
and cries of grace
a ****** seems a gin, ala engine, ie, ei
genius engenederer a man maker version
We got hope.
--
it very well could be, that we
know more than we imagined
we knew
as we,
the people, who hold certain
truths,
to be
self-evident.
You see? You hold these certain truths
and
****
you're an icecream cone.
And as Arthur assures me still:
There
will be time
to start
all
over.
If you can artifice enough integrity of mind,
to think of a way, each
mankind mind made unthingable, find that Greek word
ah dian oi toasted, nah, but near, this word means
the thing done, the deed not non-doable in being real.
the line
in the sand, crossed,
this away and thataway
we that take the refractured way through the wall,
inalienable right holding we,
the unalienable native
born bhering heir
looms
holdin' woven coffin nails as puffs of smoke signaling
go
now
carry good news on beautiful feet.
conciliate, liberty sans munera calls remunera to the game.
play fair, or be square.
Living Shakespearean tropes in Euclidean dramas
enacted by liars used to entertain fools
for the power of suggestion
gestating in the waiting
next
from now on.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
swallowing
everything.
existence is merely the illusion of light inside a void
a narrative projected onyo the screen of darkness without
restraint
dreams are swallowed by the void and
make love to it
the children of souls and minds and nothing
********
of hate
non-euclidean
stairsteps
breaking the sky
too strange to be horrible
yet too horrible to be
real
and so it falls apart
our projection shown for what it is
threadbare and disintegrating
revealed physically in our bodies
like everything we believe.
the desert of the real is upon us
and we are drowning in thirst.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
I live in a dark coal-de-sac
giving off Bonnie Tyler sparks
the Rod Stewart of loneliness,
feeling heart arch at Market Basket
I go up and down elevator
music with hooks
and loops bringing
back Ghost and Word
Modern interlacing
ritual and food
in my head and in our
breaking bread
Why do you think the feast
is movable?
Weekend food shopping;
stocking; cooking some,
but most of it, wasted,
rotting away even with
modern coolness
It's just me. It's just she
The time is gone,
the nest is empty
wish I had something more
to say
It's just Dad visiting
every weekend
to sit with his daughter
to watch his granddaughter
play soccer
It's just Mom cooking
a minor chord meal,
nothing like the Major
meals of her missing
older Sister
It's just weekend sushi
or Pho in Simi Valley
modulating one
Key memory to another
The voices go
ghosts fade
and yet the ritualistic
love persist in my
looped head in my
OCD play
at every meal
repeatedly self cutting
our geometric thought
Elements within a Euclidean
subspace
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
drink to this, lipless,
"'rotten' isn't what you think",
you tarry the borders in white.
you glisten like factory,
you tremble like gold,
you're edging the ready to fight.
your countenance silver,
your wrangle-send wet,
my finger, your jawline, the light.
I miss what you were.
You forget who you are.
Euclidean.
Forgiven.
And right.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
#18 | 31 Poems for August
When you listen to my poetry, my heartbeat should be playing in the background.
A poem buried in the pages of a book that lays on the shelves of the library found in my heart awaits to be recited again.
Forgive me for all the shades of poetry I cannot be.
Euclidean geometry cannot fathom the lines in my book of rhymes.
I’ll be your faith just so you can move mountains.
I’ll be your river just so you can walk on water.
I’ve been craving for more intellectual conversations ever since I met you.
I discovered the beauty of the world because of you.
I find liberty in the presence of you.
I find liberty in all the simple things that you do.
I feel the warmth of your presence in all the broken parts of me I thought no longer existed.
Your beauty is saturated with a language that I wish to learn.
You fill my empty pages with your words.
Words that will create an anthology that we will write together.
I find liberty in the beauty that is you.
I find liberty in all the simple things that you do.
I want to be the unforgettable poem written on the pages of your soul.
I want to be the unforgettable poem that will always make your heart warm and whole.
The world will read the pages of my soul, but my poetry will always belong to you.
My poetry will always belong to you, only you.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Palatable gargoyles dip the moon
In aluminum acetate
So it shows through the moods
Of God, a mantle for Grace
)If only He believed in cancer
So it too would seem out of place)
The manor house, relevant
Guests like Time and
Wind wrestle with the manners
Of Evelyn Waugh, Mannheim;
Euclidean space
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
sweet sugar, sugar,
enslaver of untame
able-ibility
Artsy Inquisitive
curious seekers of more than you think you knew,
queue up, ya'll, the crow jest called,
then
this is the stream we walked
into the canyon
to find,
in the shade...
Rest with me near,
in your ear, lying tongue of folly formed boy,
heartfelt,
wishing please please me like I think,
oops, therefore I am, according to the rules,
Mosaic,
Cartesian and Euclidean realities
hold me true, so to you,
holder of self-evident truth by birth,
a mind under authority, as old military-minded,
allegiance oath bound men of honor
are,
at this juncture:
grunt-gutgenug, shield-wall, stone-throw-truer
beings such as I, the author
of this moment we share.
This
on a day of some sort of visit at ion ation,
action, touch and
stick,
stretch for ever, as far as we can tell.
Entangled, tied, un-tied, re-tied, entangle means
religamented relegislated regularity of folds,
religion, for short,
twisted into knots which serve
as springs,
for launching
meaning as well met forms of happen stances, poses
occurring by purest of fortuitous concurrence of Sagan events,
suppose, it is you called to position a self you can be
in each of the postures of the fool.
Foolishness is bound to the heart of the child.
Except, out grip-take-grasp, a being of our kind, ye
become as a little, insignificant, child,
a bit
of a bubble of being, getting ***** to the core,
ye cannot see this realm,
seen through
biome-balancing the future,
Prophesee,
he shall be called holy, hermit, hidden-knower,
digester of soiled persuasive sweets,
discovered in worlds under armoires upright folk
never recall, the taste of pepperment cobwebs
with mud pies, and mammamilch, kein moomilch
from the bovine ilk,
save butter.
Butter and honey shall he eat, 'til he know to choose
the good and leave the evil go on by
each day, in its sufficiency.
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
even when i lived in barrels i was stung by pre-Euclidean geometries
aping right angles, askew of a laminar flow of Time.
even when i stutter like butter on a lightning bolt
my collisions resolve dormancy
wherever i evict a conspicuous
ascetic tenet.
i twist The End where The Beginning buds;
and watch for spontaneous eruptions-
for Origins, mapped to a powder keg
with a damp fuse.
[ it’s steam engines now… ]
AND
the moon’s belly
is a bright eclipse
clamor-locked in the beastly
barrage of our tuneless
arias…
coping with despotic realities
with aplomb; birthing sunshine
from a myth mirror
emblazoned where harm refracts
exact moments-
tumbling magnetic…
as your eyes
Yahtzee the Forbidden
like a rogue.
with
blunt force
Rama.
as Fore-
told.
II
infinity pools are finite if you swim like a rock.
or fall asleep when a lullabies’ on fire.
just so you Know.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 12:07 AM UTC
1-hour photo lab: an aged prop:
prompt
One hundred years of solitude: glass city:
yellow be their faithful death:
mikado
She prefers another color
for the bedroom wall:
sarcoline
She's in the spotlight
staged like a warm peach:
Non-Euclidean
'Almost a spy--
looking forward to a bright and wonderful future'
--eternally and everlasting:
amaranth
What do you give the person
who thinks they have it all?
Doubt:
that dull brown stocking to wear on his feet
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC
There is geometry in the humming of the strings,
there is music in the spacing of the spheres.
– Pythagoras
When I think about what day it is
Dates blur, if I look
further, past
05.03
twenty
twenty
a bunch of O’s and dots
and digits, stuck together, unwieldy
If only I could feel their insignificance
with you, nudge them towards
the bed, moonlit
where we can spend
our time, studying the way
Bodies tangle in
white sheets, cold feet and
all the heat rising to our chests
that rest in parallel,
while lips draw lines and circles
across our pale paper skin,
postulating on whether or not
‘all right angles
are congruent’,
sharp elbows overlaid
and legs wrapped tightly
around each other,
in golden spirals.
Who knew Euclidean geometry
could be so intimate.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 7:43 AM UTC
out of harm’s way, i have never been; for all ways are harmonized. I appear in the guise of an everlasting Denouement. but all the while seething with trumpets
of triumphant self-loathing and mood swings hitched
to a non-Euclidean fulcrum in the white noise
of a vibrating fog where your heart should be...
with all the corridors
of an infinite
hesitation.
with an Ampersand.
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 1:57 AM UTC