In theory a bland proposal of over-elegance
guarantees one's fame after death. For the
martyrs there is a slim-to-none purpose.
For the poets there is absolutely no purpose.
To allow my "poetic" self to
be martyred would stricken me to
the lowest state of concern imaginable;
which is unobtainable for when it is
imagined one is brought to a higher state
or concern than allowed by the lowest
state one initially set out to imagine.
The product slogan for the human
brain would be "preserving the difficulties
in producing four-dimensional graphic
representations," if in fact the human brain
had the indecency to exist in the first place.
(Consequently being in direct contrast to
the existence of the human brain's absurd
desire to disfigure any pointless circumstance
into some religion worth dying for,
which we're all familiar with exits in
great numbers).
The total energy of this desire, (which
I've just expressed in parenthesis as if it
were to be absorbed as a mere footnote
when really it may even be thought of as
being an almost fully coherent unified concept),
could only be accurately expressed in no less
than eight dimensions alone.
An object which is incapable of
representing itself to itself properly,
cannot be allowed to exist. Therefore, I
could write an infinite number of these things,
and you could never read a single one of them.
Which I adore, as described by the second
stanza; that again you can never read.
Author notes
Written April 29th, 2005
What did you think
Comments
-
This was like reading Baudrillard. In the "should it take this much concentration just to figure out what he's talking about?!" kind of way. But hey, it's good to work for your daily hit of poetry.
I found the "would stricken me" in the 2nd stanza hard to wrap my head around - if you're using bad grammar to prove something, I didn't get it.
I always have a fun time reading these bizarre and dense testaments to whatever it is. Loved the line about religion too. Priceless. -
Yay! Higher states, lower states . . . we once fought a civil war along such lines, but far less personal. . . then again it was very personal.
Good poem. Nice rambling. -
familiar with exits
eight dimensions alone
that again you can never read
the only and most awkward
expressions carry forth
those exits reality
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