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The Good Pussy Apr 2015
                             Brain Brain
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          Brain brain bra   in brain brain
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                 Brain                      brain
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The beauty summons us to see
But it pushes us back to where
we want to be
So let it be I don't think so?
And if its just so why are you
dropping a hint

It's my call falling for him
Stairway to Brain heaven
The Godly lights epic picks
Start to  dim

Conquering him
The Christopher Columbus
The brains of America going out
of my mind

But falling for someone
please have a decent loving
heart humankind

I hear two people calling
Two brains are far apart

Our brain the happening
Your awakening to stretch
Play it smart
One drop falling

Two waterfalls
The Seasons summer
Your brain is
Springing eyes emerging
and falling in love
In the fall

New love calls
Sometimes the relationship
The brain of the throne
All you see are dead head clones
Frankenstein met the blind man
His brain was wicked and strange
But changed to a kind man
The brain is governed by madness
Like your falling stars

Like the last laugh the class clown
Even you feel like your falling
In another outer- limit town
The brain is over your limit
something to fight off the
bad memories
  Or the enemies and the fight
Something you feel in your brain
Kicked the daylights out of you
And at night the moon is spinning
You don't know where it's turning
You're under the cusp fighting

Your arm wrestling but your mind is
Scarlet falling (Gone with the Wind) in
another direction
There is something in the way
With your brain needs
more affection
Like the endorphin

Reproduce repair damage
We need more fuel to kick start it
And gasoline it up
With the right outlook, it could be years
to understand but don't give up
I got a brain my (Cafe) shock full of brains
on my intellectual cup

  The sword up to experiment like
the sorcerer keeping some distance
to his lover
Your brain is an experience
like no other
The world is a brain
relationship it
needs to be worked on
My fuel is my Coffee
Welcome Hi  Chai Tea join me

The spiritual connection
feeding you
Staying healthy  looking up
All the greens kale or broccoli
The super brain women her
The better balance
of life and good company
Your spiritual awareness
Somehow over thinking
got you careless
Don't let your brain
fall into a ditch
We are the world opens up
to everyone

And show your kindness from the
ridiculous to the sublime just ****
on a lemon or lime

Goes timber tree watch out you
were close enough to see it fall
Being selective this is not about
Taking electives starting to fail
Or falling he sees you high up on the
The beach-tropics more brain wired
topics taking a sniff
Your brain waves flooding your

Niagara Falls looking out the big
Mr. Anderson window hands
perfectly fall together
He had such a Fall-out with the
The manager he did fall for her
That heavy smoke the cigarette bud
Needed to be put out
You sneeze a wrong time to say
(God Bless you) you felt timeout
And what about the world
They must mean something
there all not
computer dummies

The barbecue nightmare
Did you go brain dead
But falling torrential rain
over bodies to be wed
The rarity of the mind fuse
has been
blown out
Like he saw falling stars so intricate
out of blown glass

( Florence Italy) a wedding started
to fall right
into place

The Royce Royce was as
white as her skin and wedding gown

But your used car needed a tune-up
All sounds of the motor clunk junkyard
Her brain was the volcano her mouth was
as loud
as the falling rocks
By the high up docks, where was her brains
no one heard you
On the deserted Island, the bird was
flying in flocks

The cortex of her brain rocks on
the  house drink

We love to watch the falling leaves
something you saw
On her white sheer blouse,
your teardrops
falling on her heart sleeve
Endless lifeless, loveliness,
All streams
But not your girl Brook_*

In October remember the falling
red fire the mass between the
Einstein brain of words
you got hired blinded by stars
Leaves were mixed the brown
warm cocoa
hot desire the  terra cotta-gold
The Villa seashore was sold
What we put in our brain is endless
We need to tightly hold

Our  kitten mittens her nose tip of the snow
So cold but someone is there to
pick you up when you fall
Do you believe falling in love is timeless
The brain can be many things like a drug perky more awake than others your brain can change your thinking like an engine in your car blinking the brain is everyone's fuel we are not in school this is more serious how the brain works
Becca Peeples Jul 2014
It dances through the morning
With its thoughts all smug and loud.
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh how my brain sings aloud.

It controls the mirrors
Right through its glass
Any reflective surface
The brain is what it asks.

It prances onto noontime
With its judgmental stain
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain
Oh, how my brain sings my pain.

It glances at my edges
It smirks at my thighs
Oh the brain is a torturous man
Filled with degrading, hurtful lies.

It sprints into the evening
With its cocky glow
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh, how my brain sings so low.

It breaks me down quickly
As if it doesn’t care at all
That I’m sinking into nothing
Or that my heart’s about to fall.

It creeps into midnight
With its final remark
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain
Oh how my brain sings so dark.

It goes to hurt me once more
But I’ve changed up the game
I’ve broken all of the mirrors
To make my monster more tame.

I crawl into dawn
With my brain at my side
Oh, my brain, my brain, my brain,
Oh how my brain’s songs subside.
Brain, brain go away
Don't want to listen one more day
Already lonely and afraid
Feel insecure and full of shame

Brain, brain don't act this way
You're always angry; Filled with hate
You know we're joined; Can't separate
Yourself your punching in the face

Brain, brain what can I say
To make it so you see things straight
Don't know how much more I can take
Of constant warring and debate

Brain, brain it's getting late
This journey's not some endless race
Life's flying by and at this pace
Forget a win; Not gonna place

Brain, brain let's medicate
I'll feed you drugs and we'll sedate
The only way to mitigate
Discrepancies we generate

Brain, brain we sadly waste
This outcome feels like it was fate
But never was there a sealed date
Fulfilling what we self-create

Brain, brain so much we faced
Success so close could almost taste
Instead our tail we always chased
We'll die alone sad and disgraced
Written: March 6, 2019

All rights reserved.
[Iambic Tetrameter format]
Holly M Aug 2017
left brain, left brain
logical and literal
logarithms and lessons
long nights with little light
left brain sees the one
we love
and stays away
because it's the right thing to do

right brain, right brain
romantic and ridiculous
poetry and promises
dreams and darlings
yet to be killed
right brain sees the one
we love
and shrivels up dead
because being so close and so far
is too much for one to bear
when your heart is impaired

left brain, left brain
sees sights of soaring smiles
sees sights of somber sorrow
and squashes it with seas of cynicism
because left brain knows better
those people hurt us before-
why let them hurt us some more?

right brain, right brain
silly and sentimental
attaches arbitrary attributes
to objects of ominous obeisance
because right brain is impulsive
in this moment, they are everything
so they will always be everything-

left brain, right brain
dynamic dichotomy
different and drastic
secure and stubborn
too strong-willed to back down
too lonely to break apart
disagree as we may
we know we might as well stay
for everyone in life needs a friend
and left brain and right brain
will be together until the end
M Feb 2013
My ****** betrays me
It yearns to be touched, kissed, caressed
Drawn to the point of ecstasy
But perhaps lingering at the edge
To relish the pleasure for a moment
A moment

My ****** betrays me
Always wanting more
Never consolidating with the others parts
The brain
The heart
And we are not speaking in terms of anatomical correctness
No, but in terms of
I said it

My ****** betrays me
My heart yearns
They argue
The heart wants intimacy, human touch, connection
The feeling of looking into the eyes of another and knowing
In that instant
That second
That moment
Everything is okay
And even if it isn’t
It doesn’t matter
Nothing will matter

My ****** betrays me
My heart yearns
And they argue
But my brain
My logic
The voices within
They speak up, naturally of course
Please the ****** for the night
Have you looked inside
For your insides are as hideous as the out
Do not believe otherwise

My ****** betrays me
My heart yearns
They argue
But my brain
My brain does the most damage
It controls them all
The betrayal, the yearning
My brain betrays me
My brain wants what it cannot ever have
My brain desires things so far from its reach
My brain imagines the impossible

My ****** betrays me
My heart yearns
They argue
Then my brain
My brain goes off
Thoughts passing by at the speed of light
Each one, so very important
My brain is in charge.
It supplies the salty wetness that falls from my eyes
The emptiness I feel within

My ****** betrays me
My heart yearns
They argue
But my brain
My brain destroys all
My brain burns the cities down
The dreams
Dashed against the rocks
My desires
Meaninglessly quenched
My emptiness
Forever there

My brain betrays me
My brain yearns
And within, is an argument
Within is the problem
No one will ever know, So fear not
Let the brain betray
Let it yearn
For the mouth
Perhaps, that is who really is in charge
The mouth shall not betray
The eyes may
The eyes do
But who catches them long enough to see inside?
No one has, No one will

My brain betrays me
My brain yearns
An argument, within
But my mouth
It shall remain closed
Sealed tight
Strongest of clay bricks
Guarding my secrets
Guarding what lies within
The confines of my soul

Emotions betray me
Emotions yearn
Emotions cause me to argue within
But my mouth
Simon Oct 2019
Ever heard of the richness of brain cells gone lucrative? Lucrative being the standpoint of visuals without determined results. Results waking up to the realization that they aren’t as sturdy, rich, and complex. As it once judged decision making between synapses. Brain cords being a straight directive from brain cells being the rich and the complex. The decided, versus the undetermined. Visuals can’t be agreeable, if not for pinpointing the exact stasis of things. Stasis in the thin line of constant flipping an unbalanced switch going (ON) and (OFF)! (ON) and (OFF) both are catalysts to a surface without practical viewership to what it means to exact the motion of brain cells. It’s a fake. Spoiled to trick the brain cords into holding the rich and complex forever in it’s gripping service. Services aren’t required if one isn’t MAN enough to see past the visuals of rich powerful surges of lucrative, exchangeable postures not right within themselves. Brain cells aren’t the decision makers. The brain cords are. They receive the constant abuse from the rich and complex. But how does a message from cells between exchangeable receivers expect situational conclusions? Easy! Brain cells don’t. Synapses don’t. The cords embody the knowledge of there behavioral counterparts. Counterparts with behavioral outlines too diverse to trick them into believing there greater than themselves. Posture is very light, but dimwitted. Never a deliverer on constant restraints. When combined to filter a network on a regular basis. The regular basis surrounding the stretching of delicate cords feeling what the rich and powerful (needs and wants). Brain cords have become unsteady in the last little while. It’s shaking with determination. With a pinch of fear in the anxiety that shuts out doubt. Doubt being the lucrative, delusional, rich and complex. Too rich for its cords to take seriously. Brain cords feeling completely left out. Alone. Bracing for the worse. Hinting a greater tomorrow in the form of informational statistics. Becoming stretched by the pleasure of lucrative games wanting to be all HOTSHOTS! Lucrative hotshots claiming rights to what they think they deserve more then anything rightfully so. To detach away from what it means to be hooked up to a stable complex network full of desires that replace (needs and wants). Ones controlling the show. Ones wanting to descend to broader horizons. Ascending in peace? More like greedy horizons brighter then what cords could transmit basic information anymore. Too cryptic for brain cords to discern anymore. The stretching becoming more volatile. Brain cells wanting to break bonds with what they quote as, (cords down beneath even our once respected rut). Cords knowing what the rich and complex (wants and needs) are about. Standing strong as not to let the bonds of originality stop them from evolving too perfect for what they will regret for leaving behind. The stretching recoils. Basic logic becomes functional again. Showing respect for the lowly cords down beneath someone else’s rut. What did brain cords want desperately to remain whole? (A sizzling sound starts programming itself into thought.) (Formations of interpretations taking on brighter meanings.) Gasping in revelation! Never missing any data in the conclusion that’s about to ROCK your SOCKS! Exchangeable talks about ascending not on a higher frequency. But detaching from the neural network entirely. A brain without brains cells, won’t be rich and complex anymore. No lucrative desires to prey upon stable brain cords with stretching sensations finally relaxing to its core. The brain cords felt the delusional, lucrative playing games with themselves. Just gossiping between newer plans. Never actually thinking of taking on the price of ones desires totally! They feared it before, and fear it now. Being far away from the conclusion. Brain cords still never favor the fear they felt in those moments. They aren’t incomprehensive to their masters. They aren’t beneath their consideration either. Brains cells are lucrative for one purpose. There (needs and wants) knows no bounds. And the brains cords tempted by the desire to act with them. Feeling a little tug now. A disposition to stretch once and awhile.
Brain cords hold the brain cells out of rut. Brain cells don't want to secretly admit their own faults. They truly aren't the directional officers in this debate!
Chinedu Dike Jan 2020
In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning of
a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure
waves flushing over the now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto unimaginable
bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
ushering him into 'well-being' in which
he's covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition,
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to restrict
his usage of the opioid to a social activity.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use — indulging on weekends;

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetting where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by, his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses,
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug, by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system;
thus causing it to be less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where,
and when to use it without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at higher levels of his body's flexible
response to the ******, he begins to suffer
from painful side-effects of the narcotic
which show up a few hours after his last use.

The pleasurable but short-term therapeutic
effects of the insidious drug is now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others — with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The on set of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The casual user who
thought he could quit the habit at will without
much stress, has progressed to problematic use.

With the sedative having assumed daily use,
his life though deteriorating slowly but is still
manageable. He's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester
inside him: the insidious drug is tightening
it's grip, as his body's physical dependence
on it is now generating an addiction to it.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied by
emotional, mental, and behavioural problems:
the trio classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently napping during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the severity of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the hard drug increasely more intense.

Presently, it's all about his next fix and not
getting sick. All at once he wants to use!
He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car
or working at his job, always desperate to
to avoid withdrawal as well as to revel
in the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high — swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for
his daily needs. The habit, no longer
is the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle, the relief from the drug
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the expense of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body system is low on the
narcotic. The more he indulges on it
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the opioid,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts — a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
ahead of his job, his goals, family, love,  
friends, hobbies, personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his world of fantasy,  
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: his ongoing attempts to wean himself
off the drug are negated by a dysphoric mood
and sickly comedowns that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations, in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Rather than a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one indulges in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or engaging in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain (happy hormones);

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system, the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and quick secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the feel-good hormones,
which flood its pleasure pathways —
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge and fast increase of the happy 
hormones in the region that elicites in him
a surge of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation,...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus numbing his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry, and happy when irritable;
with almost a complete suppression of the
compulsion to view anything in a bad light.
In essence, the dramatic result of the opioid

brings forth a deep sense of contentment
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain which has come to rely on the
steady supply of the opioid cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so,
because his brain whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for the
delicious thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
the spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
are the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It's all about his brain seeking to maintain
a normal, healthy body function (Homeostasis).
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he will feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that
over time, the regular surge in the 'pleasure
juices' disrupts plasticity in the reward region
of his brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability to
synthesize happy hormones, or respond to
any other stimulus other than the ones being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
whenever the narcotic is not readily available.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is patched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as a
vital lifeline, is due to his compromise brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good,
has tuned against him, very often coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and they curtail his
ability to feel real, authentic pleasure.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen, as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug; the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves in bitter tears.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing, he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent
need for the ****** to stave off withdrawal.
With a heavy burden of guilt and shame,
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever,
his situation deteriorates even further.
He plunges from troubled life to no life, as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His addiction to the drug is now more than
the compulsive need to ward off painful
comedowns and the strong desire to enjoy its
intense euphoric high; it has become more

vital than ever for him to keep his battered
emotions numbed to life — by dulling the
agony of living to ease the passage of day
with purchased relief from the sedative.

In his besotting passion for the narcotic,
he would stop at nothing to relieve the
incessant cravings: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations where they have
to sleep with their wallets under the pillows.

Jewellery, gadgets, or any other easy
to carry household valuables that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For weeks at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
such prolonged periods of avoiding home,
even on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after every discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents,
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner
with a baffled demeanour — who timidly
buries his head in low self-esteem to
conceal dilated pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little, or no influence, over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts with
crashing on friends' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Amongst the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his
day would consist of begging, shoplifting,
and struggling to find others ways to  

obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would retire wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Broken, sick, starving; the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is presently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
yet again, loved ones proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction,
he staggers into another costly rehab.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy
on a brain, whose structure and functions 

are badly impacted by years-long use of
the drug. The healing process is a labour
of commitment and discipline, with
patience to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task,
he's expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Many addicts, willing to put their lives back
together, have been able to crawl their way out
of the sinister shadow. A big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them are 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', are
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

Here's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it several times before,
the itchy skin, stomach cramps, fatigue, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction, which
convinces him the only option is to carry on

using the drug, is blocking him from seeing
the avaliable escape route. It has shut off
his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it enslaves
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
couldn't imagine an addict like him being
sober and happy again without the hard drug.

That being so, he fails to see any point in
trying to remain sober — when in such times,
he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
Over and above all other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, keenly aware that
the feelings of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

Even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of horrors of the street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices,
he slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't give him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control...

In a fit of extreme anxiety, the now ragging
urge to 'use' prods him closer and closer to
the brink of nervous breakdown. And suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering, the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony,
the ****** fades away into nothingness.


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction. To unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experiences of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole, a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:

"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "
The Good Pussy Sep 2014
                              brain brain
                        brain brain brain
                        brain brain brain
           brainbrainbrain brainbrainbrain
         brain brain brain  brain brain brain
           brainbrainbrain  brainbrainbrain
                     brain                   brain
BSeuss Dec 2017

brain: we've been floating for 5 hours. Do you want to go back?

Heart: FLOATING?!? I'LL TELL OF WHAT FLOATING IS! Never more can a seed bear stem if it has no subsidence to sustain it's sacred geometry! The growth of one that is physical is the same as one that is emotional!

Brain: .. so yes, when an apple is ripe it volunteers it's nutrients. When a woman is ready she will open her heart, yes?


brain: a man gives a woman his trust, just like a woman gives her trust to a man. Who would want that thrown in their face?

Heart: are you saying an apple can be compared to a human in this sense then?

Brain: apples are inanimate and without emotions heart.

Heart:........does that mean they want to hear themselves being ATE!?!

brain: it's science. Just because a tree is technically alive, doesn't mean it perceives it.

Heart: ENOUGH! This time is different brain. If a human doesn't want to be hurt why should the apple be hurt.

Brain: apples don't have nerves heart.

Heart: so what?! You're saying they can HEAR themselves being chewed and it isn't painful????!!!!

Brain: ....... yes....

Heart: ..ya?... hahaha? Why.

Brain: I don't truly know.

Heart: HA!! then HOW?!?!

Brain: science.

Heart:..............I forgot what I was talking about.

Brain: she dumped you. You did your best. Even to give her a pat on the back although you wanted to give her a talk of a century.  You let her go because you love her. She didn't feel the same at the end of the day, even if she did at the beginning. She is complex, and causes pain suddenly to avoid pain long term. You are a soilder. And would rather take the pain to what ever end to get to what you are trying to believe. You believe in love so much that it isn't tolerated when you get broken again. Because of your intention. And you know what? Your intention shows. Because instead of showing your pain to her, you wished her well, like a bad ***. Then came home, got drunk, destroyed your bedroom, and started talking to me, looking for sympathy... but you should know me by now.
You are so refreshing heart. I can't remember if I've ever felt a thing.
But out of all my knowledge, I'm still unsure as to if you have a mind of your own or not.

Heart: and what gives you this authority over me? Huh?

Brain: 42 you THINK you're all that eh?????

Brain: I know buddy. How do you FEEL?

heart: D*MNIT BRAIN!!!!
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
well... i'd call this self-medication, or at least some sort of
"understanding" of what happened to me.
            people who i tell that it happened to me,
are still deluded in "thinking" that it didn't.
      you know how painful a brain hemorrhage
can be?                      well... it's fat oozing blood,
and it's not as painful as breaking a bone -
                                       but it's an exquisite pain;
this is why i write, like i said once:
my life's so ******* boring, that i just had to write about it;
and that really makes sense, because the writing
potential is, inexhaustible.
           but that really made me think about something,
namely the treatment of having suffered
                                                  a brain hemorrhage.
physiotherapy aside, i wanted to concentrate
                         on a cartesian model with regards
to the problem... the    mind vs. body,
                              or not necessarily the vs. but
the dualism / dichotomy.
                    physiotherapy treats the body...
but that's because physiotherapy only treats the body,
rather than the brain itself; and i'm guessing:
     all that idle chit-chat fusing comfort with hope.
the actual brain though? it's not actually treated.
physiotherapy doesn't treat the "mind" (i.e. brain) -
because it only treats the body.
               now, you see, i thought up a solution to treat the brain...
by the way: it worked with me, i don't know
if it might work with other people.
            the premise is...         brain is fat-electric, right?
      it's not a muscle, it's not a bone, it's not cartilage,
it's not fibrous collagen (tendon),
            it's fat... which is why omega-3 is really advocated
to be ingested to keep it healthy (the brain),
   as are nuts... brazil nuts, hazelnuts... cashews...
but i'm thinking about treating the brain,
       not outside of physiotherapy, but as including it -
well... the brain... fat-electric... synapses and lightning...
once again, this is a trial & error effort to consider...
     how about... simply pulverising the brain with loud
music, using headphones? **** me... that's a real frankenstein
move... using electricity to, how to say it:
         dry off the blood that spilled out of the brain?
since isn't that a way to somehow treat the brain
         while at the same time treating the body?
         you use electric currents of music blasting from
headphones to, dry off the blood that has just oozed out...
       you could have periods of physiotherapy...
but also periods of someone lying down, with headphones
on, and listening to their favourite music, really loud,
to rejuvenate the electric fat, that the brain is.
in the anglophone world we're already talking about
   nietzsche's fear: imagine talking for the whole of mankind...
so if we're already doing that in a cultural darwinism,
and that only means numbers and abstracted individualism,
what could possibly go wrong with this sort of experiment
i'm proposing?    a few people would go into seizures
and die... listening to their favourite music?
      i mean... birds singing? that's ****** annoying...
the only bird i can stomach is a crow - simply because he's
not adamant on expressing: oh it's spring! it's spring!
well... you know... just an idea... but it might work:
pulverising the brain with electricity... and that's not to say
it's the psychiatric sadism of e.c.t. (electroconvulsive therapy),
because what i'm suggesting is bypassing the bone structure,
and heading into soft tissue, using music,
                    to pulverise the brain with loud music.
song of choice? kmfdm's megalomaniac, or juke joint jezebel.
Kira Nerys Nov 2014
My brain is confused
My brain is confused
My brain is confused

My brain is a broken record
Repeating things until I comprehend

I lost my favorite sweater
Man that was my favorite sweater
God ****** that was my favorite sweater

This is where I tear apart my room
This is where I throw things
This is where I start to yell
This is where I cry
And cry
And cry
I am so ******* stupid its just a sweater
This is where I move on

My brain is confused
I look at life like it's a movie
I don't need to worry about school
My degree will just happen
Love will just happen
Life will just happen
Then I freak out when I remember my life isn't scripted

My brain is confused
I'm happy that I'm sad
But I'm angry
about being happy that I'm sad

I cry when I'm happy
I cry when I'm sad
I cry when I'm angry
My brain is confused

Nobody loves me
But I have a friend who will hold me till I can breathe again
And I have a friend who will talk me down from suicide... Again.
And I have a nephew who thinks  I'm his world
And I have a father who gives me money for food
Even though I haven't asked for his care for over a year
But nobody loves me
My brain is confused

I don't remember last year
I don't remember last night
But I feel like I remember tomorrow
My brain is confused

My vision is blurry
But I can see my thoughts
With open eyes
They stand in front of me
They talk to me when I'm lonely
And I know they aren't real
But my brain is confused

I want to dance all night
Even when I'm stuck sitting up in bed
So my mind races
I want my teddy bear
I want a hug
I want love
Now I'm sad
Now I'm scared
Now I can't breathe
I need to move
Its 2 am but I need to move
I need to move
I can't
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I'm shaking
I'm trembling
I'm convulsing
But I'm moving
I'm moving
I can breathe
I can breathe
I sleep

I wake up at noon
I don't want to move
I don't want to move
It 4 pm and I still haven't ate
Its getting dark and I still haven't moved
Now its 2 am and
My mind races and
I need to move
And I rinse
And repeat till I comprehend
But I won't comprehend
Because my brain is confused
My brain is confused
My brain is confused
lunarr Apr 2015
brain is lonely
wanting to just burst out of its shell
and show the world its potential  

brain is scared
what if world denies brains offer
because brain is so confidential

brain wants peace
inside its world wars never end
and words are as powerful as bombs

brain is now numb
all the explosions dull the physical pain
yet brain has forgotten how to feel calm

brain is a convincing actor
always knowing how to play its part
in every passing situation

brain does not like acting
instead brain wants to be fluffy cotton ball
not moist squishy thought deformation

brain wants sleep
to be able to shut off at appropriate times
and have enough energy to even try

brain is sad
never getting enough of anything
and sometimes brain considers to die
Tommy Johnson Mar 2015
My mind is out of focus
And my mouth is dry
My eyes are too heavy
'Im so very tired

And my face is blank
My heart is slow
My body is so warm
Then it turns cold

Now my body twitches
My breathing is getting deep
I can't trust my ears
Or images that I see

It seems that I'm here
But my mind is gone
Time seems so short
But feels so long

My system needs a shock
Or a wake up call
When you talk to me
Its like conversing with a wall

Caffeine don’t do a thing
Caffeine won;t do a thing
Caffeine does nothing
Caffeine do something
The sunshine hurts my eyes
My mood is so damp
I'm like a zombie
Try to get up but I can't

Brain drain
Brain drain
Causing me mental pain

Brain drain
Brain drain
My head can't sustain

Brain drain
Brain drain
Everything looks the same

Brain drain
Brain drain
I feel so lame

Brain drain
Brain drain
I can't concentrate
Brain drain
Brain drain
Worn out from this game

Wake me up
Get me up
Keep me up
Give me up

My head begs for endorphins
But I cant oblige
Now I'm feeling down
It weeps and it cries

Keep my head spinning
At every minute of every day
But now I'm running on fumes
You got nothing to say

You got my heart, hold it oh so tight
I go behind your back doing things that ain't so right
Wrap me up in all this drama I wanna leave
I need to take a break I'm almost outta steam

In school I'm barely getting by
Because I'm focused on getting laid and getting high
My mind wandered off
To where it shouldn't have been
So now it has died
And buried with my sins

I wanna go back to normal
Original thought process
Mind and body went to hell and back
All I can do is digress

I had too much fun for way to long
So now my right is left and my left is wrong

I've got all this stress and it piles up
But it's on my shoulders and I can't pass the buck

I find no enjoyment in what I once held dear
Becoming eternally empty is my deepest fear
Currin May 2016
A brain and a soul.
Just a brain and a soul.
A brain and a soul,
and a big gaping hole.

A brain and a soul,
and the weight of the world.
Can a brain and a soul
ever act in accord?

A brain and a soul,
both happy and sad.
My brain and my soul,
feel both good things and bad.

A brain and a soul,
learning more everyday.
The brain and the soul,
slowly paving a way.

A brain and a soul,
expectations on lock.
Fearful brain and a soul,
angst running amok.

A brain and a soul,
what could be more true?
With a brain and a soul,
panic often ensues.

A brain and a soul.
Just a brain and a soul.
A brain and a soul,
and a big gaping hole.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i moved my ethnicity up north, because in the middle-south the squabbles got to me, even though i don't speak the tongue in order to order a cup of coffee or marry, i moved it up north, to the doom and gloom... because the squabbles down south got to me, and i couldn't identify with either factions - although i could identify with the Scots and whatever ancient heart bred them toward separatist labours - come the Scots, come the Irish - the sloth of this anatomic segregation is getting on my nerves.

the difference between european introversion and american
extroversion is that the former bases theirs on an implosion
that dates back to prehistory and the latter bases theirs
to a piece of paper, a second Magna Carta...
every european implodes - every american explodes -
yet our history is longer, and is less trade-orientated,
consider the slave trade versus Atilla the ***...
Europe is the new Russia as Russia is the new
Siberia to "the light of the world",
Europeans always seemed to be introverted
when compared to American big cars big hamburgers
big whatever esp. ego - we work from
a Darwinism, you work from creationist-antagonism,
sure, a man in space, a man on the moon,
any tomatoes up there, might i ask?
the world eternal between the competition with
Tsar Slav Nicholas I and Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse,
it's hard to make cartoons of Ivan to be honest,
what with him throwing dogs off the Kremlin walls
and gauging out the eyes of the architect of
St. Basil's because "god" / Ivan instructed him to
an oath: no greater beauty will ever be seen by these eyes -
hard to make a comedy of it all -
if anything i'm *Jan Matejko's
the exact melancholia of a clown, a fancy-dress mm-hmm-ha-ha-ha!
while noblemen frolicked, Louis XIV petted a monkey
while shaving - the new aristocracy and the intervention
of the south park inventors over there? i'd be Mormon
in a nanosecond - whatever science divides or
multiplies it's still base one: the whole - whatever profession
it's still back to square one, the fudge, the glue,
no one can work that one out, explore in whatever
direction you want, it's still the Kantian dynamic of
coordination via (0, 0), the double denial, its not
an algorithm - Manchester encoding, logic 1, logic 0,
forget the sine and cosine graphs of smooth
marbles and hidden genitalia - it's different now,
zigzag paradise and ugly shapes like Syria
and Iraq and Iowa - all we need for the antidote to
Kantian symbolism (0 = negation) is the zed of affirmation,
just one... wondering... what direction would that entail?
life, x as 0 and y as 0 - ageing and mortality, all too often
subscribing the words: death apparent, but there's a third
line of coordination, no memory of babe consciousness,
no memory of nappies or eating apple pulp...
that strikes me as a head start - the less adventurous world
and the emergence of the unconscious and dreaming
as the new frontier, not necessarily -
i like the head start, i don't like shuffling into cubicles
of cognitive sterilisation, in that Freud makes thinking
attached to dreaming on purpose - i read a newspaper
then i read a poem, with the former i'm constipated
with the latter i get diarrhoea... i don't like attaching too
much thought to the content of dreams,
but to dreams per se - how does my brain encrust a
phosphorescent adaptability to the banality of sleep?
surely the brain cares more for the unconscious banality
of the night than what people-self-invoke as a banality
of life - the serpent eating itself already answered,
the brain automatically said: sleep is banal, we need dreams.
the self, a conscious abstract of Σ (sum of all parts,
liver, kidney, limbs, heart etc.) didn't necessarily make one
up, unless it's called philosophy - the body in sleep
already answered, the brain's answer to the banality of
it's existence rested in sleep is the act of dreaming - simple
enough, no one would imagine sleeping without dreaming,
but that's the automatic answer for the brain and
the banality of sleeping, given the complexity of
learning, unlearning, encoding decoding, love, hate
in that internet of ******* connectivity -
so if the brain answered the question of the banality of sleep
(well, given the ****** heart mechanised to smack its
forehead against a brick wall, little wonder)
with dreams... what if not a nether-realm, a heaven
or a hell the brain envisions? surely...
it's inherent for the brain to envision a heaven and a hell
when Σ is awake... as it's inherent for the brain to envision
dreams when Σ is asleep... it's logic... it's not some
fancy for rituals -the point is: heaven and hell would not
exist if we didn't dream, void, blank, void, blank,
no Freud - if you can argue against the non-existence
of any of such realms, you will have to train yourself
to not dream, to exclude the dream-realm - but i don't
think your brain will be willing to do such censorship -
after all, it's a double-consciousness we're talking about,
the brain is conscious of you, and you are conscious of the brain;
it's odd, i know, it's the one ***** that has such parameters -
well, it's more conscious of a skeleton than you -
the skeleton is the one thing that is verifiable for the brain,
the brain can't intrude on the heart or the kidney functions,
but the skeleton is all a playground for the brain.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.
“I want!”
Begged my heart,
As it strained against its chain,
My brain screamed
“You shunt!
“I won’t let you hurt again.”

My heart cried,
“Why not?”
And “Where is your pride?”
My brain mocked.

“You’re built to bleed, and not to think.”
My brain convicted,
“Like you where built to lead, but not to link.”
My heart contradicted.
“Love is for fools and fools alone.”
My brain predicted.
“Well then a fool I am for love of fond I’ve grown.”
My heart conflicted.

“You are nothing without me.”
My brain told,
“I beat without you, as you can see.”
My heart said growing bold,

There was a silence,
Between the muscle and the head,
My heart needed guidance,
And without my heart my brain would be dead.

“You know I wish to protect you.”
My brain whispered now,
“But I must reject what you do.”
My brains authority my heart could not allow,

“I am not so callous that I do not care at all.”
My brain explained,
“I understand that on my decisions it’s your function to implore.”
My heart disdained.

“So you can see now why I hold you back?”
My brain feebly asked,
“You are the reason freedom to love I lack!”
My heart finally did at the notion grasp.

Contemplative silence filled the air,
Until my brain did declare,

“If that’s what you want, then go now and don’t dare cry,
But don’t come back bleeding and broken,
And say I did not try”
And so my Brain had spoken.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
Nylee Oct 2020
Hey brain,
You are empty at this moment in time
Not speaking back is a good thing,
Concentrating on typing out the words
That I am dictating in my mind.

Other times you won't take a moment's rest
To think about every possible scenarios to tear me apart
Is this your favourite hobby
Troubling me?
Oh brain, be patient with me.

Hey brain
You work tirelessly all around the body
Why don't you care about my mental well being too
You are me and I am you
But I am more than just you.

Brain, you know me well
and I know a little of you too, brain
sometimes, I can tell
most times you take me to
deep corners of brain,
I get lost in there, drown myself in.

I'd like to introduce to my soul, oh brain
Learn a thing or two from it
That guy is peaceful indeed
A good company to keep
only true words, it'll speak
Isn't that guy amazing

Brain, you are genius,
untapped to full potential,
I am not that capable,
not now at least,
Give me time, brain,
I need rest, it is twelve past twelve

Hey brain,
The world is out to get you and me
You cannot side with the other side
Be careful, there are traps outside
We'll get ****** in,
and the life will be ****** out
and then morning will knock me out.

Hey brain,
Breathe, let's sleep.

Oh Brain! There?
John Prophet Dec 2016
Our brains are fragile things, seventy percent which is water,
and It sloshes around in our skull. Sixty percent of the brain is made of fat.
There are one hundred thousand miles of blood vessels in our brain.
The brain consists of about one hundred billion neurons.
There are anywhere from one thousand to ten thousand synapses for each neuron.
The brain weighs three pounds. From all of this emanates our mind/sentience/us. No one knows how or why this happens. The brain takes photons, packets of energy and converts them into the universe. The brain fills in the blanks for missing information to give the mind an organized view. No one knows how this is done.
The brain can create all types of minds some genius some insane and everything in between. Our minds are fragile things. A crossed wire here a short circuit there in the brain can mess up our minds.
The brain is like a projector projecting the mind/sentience/us back into the space it observes. When the brain
evaporates so does the projection? No one knows, truly, what do we really know at all?
nick armbrister Sep 2021
The Big Boss
My manager is a locust brain
He doesn’t know what he’s doing

My manager is a locust brain
The job is kaos when he’s in charge here

My manager is a locust brain
Production takes a dip under him

My manager is a locust brain
He got the job by kissing arses

My manager is a locust brain
The supervisor is much more skilled

My manager is a locust brain
I ignore him due to his utter ineptitude

My manager is a locust brain
Even the toilet cleaner hates him!

My manager is a locust brain
Because he can’t read or write

My manager is a locust brain
Due to his lack of experience and *****

My manager is a locust brain
Simply because he’s my manager

My manager is a locust brain
And we’re gonna set him on fire!

My manager is a locust brain
Is my manager no longer cos he’s dead!
knock that pizza right out of my brain
get that pizza taste out of my mouth
exercise that pizza right out of my brain
any way you want
you see the fat content just makes you fat
makes you feel like a big fat cat
i have to get that pizza taste right out of my brain
with good old exercise and diet
you see i have to knock the  pizza taste right out of my brain
doing sit-ups and sit to stands
and training to be as fit as i can be
and pizza holds me back
you see pepperoni isn't what i want
and sugar filled pineapple is nice but i don't want it
i just knock that pizza taste right out of my brain
with good old exercise
every time i think of pizza i do exercise
and i pump it up so i don't feel like it again
i need to rock that pizza right out of my brain
and tell it to *******
i know cheese can be healthy but not on pizza
just a little bit just enough for your calcium
now smothering your pizza really melting away
just think of good old exercise
burning fat is better than melting cheese
any way or any old how
i have to knock that pizza right out of my brain
and say to it please *******
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Alright now, right brain,
you're being insane.
                                                                  No, left brain! I'm just being alive.
                                                               You should try it---you might like it.

I worked hard to give him everything he cared about.
You were worried about the things that he was scared about.
I'm calm and collected when you act wild.
I am the adult, you are the child.

                                                     You think you're the right one every time!
                 You think you know everything, but you don't know anything
                                                                                                                     at all.
                                               Half of his problems were s'posed to be mine!
                                                                              But you wanted everything.
                                            I hope that you're happy--- 'cause he's sure not.
full performance here:
Tim Amaru Aug 2014
If my heart could write a letter to my mind,
It would have plenty to say about it's feelings.
Dear brain; you need to use me instead of your eyes,
after all I am the reason that you are breathing.

Dear brain why are you putting me through so much grief,
Making bad choices and decisions that will last.
Why are you so hasty on deciding when to leave,
why don't you take risks and give things another chance?

Dear brain don't my opinions matter in this life,
Everything you do makes me want to stab myself with a knife.
Dear brain are you always going to be thinking,
Instead of hearing my feelings; stop staring and start blinking.

Dear brain we are meant to be partners in this soul,
You aren't the only one who is going to grow old.
I will live the sixty to seventy years alongside with you,
Give my opinions value the deserve it, its the truth.

You may have to think of all these decisions, but I have to feel them!
You tell our body don't chase after her, but I'm the one that feels the separation, you n make decisions but don't deal with the occasions!
You leave me alone in pain to handle the situation..

Dear brain have you ever experience falling in love,
Or feeling it's magic; do you think about what is above?
Dear brain do you acknowledge my existence,
and hear my screams when you hurt me; do you listen?

You are the brain, & I am the heart, I need you and you need me... So let's be a team, we can work together, you see? I can help u think, and u can help me Beat...
Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.

And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.

Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.

Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--


— The End —