"cerebrum" poems
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully
he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am
the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack
pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety
so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint
so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged
and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:
*"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years*
...and other stories*
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
I adore you
With your forward brow,
Eyes of nightshade and black treacle.
Your image floats and unfurls in the ****** spaces
Between marks posed in gazette.
You stare back at me knowingly,
Cunningly,
As though watching the course of my life unfold.
You have stretched your hand through time
To let it fall in a cold gust across these pages,
Betwixt the folds of my cerebrum,
Your spectral lips prompting faintly
In the nook behind my ear.
-O goddess, O muse!-
O fellow soul…
You have found me.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
Trauma cemented my secrets deep within the crevices of my core,
yet he cracks my chest and I am a chilled corpse
drenched in formaldehyde, slowly decaying,
laid open for all to study.
Ordinary organs on display, hiding the scars of past mistakes:
bruises from an ex-boyfriend don’t tint the epidermis,
wine that splattered the walls and my white t-shirt
have already left the liver, the folds of cerebrum
unscathed from the demons that scratched
away at my sanity.
He’s seen me naked, vulnerable, and now I’m terrified
that he isn’t interested in understanding –
just observing – my anatomy.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
*some men and women
will scale you from 1 to 10
like they have lived within
the outlines and inlines of your body,
like it's your fault the moon has craters
or a crow was born albino
or death is inevitable
but they have only seen
the curves of your waist
when they should have seen
the curves of your cerebrum,
blooming with constellations on every turn;
they have only seen
the bumps of your biceps
but they should have seen
the bumps of your big heart
pumping rivers of stardust on every cycle
because you are not a 1 nor a 5 nor a 10—
you are a hundred
it is not your fault that
you carry cosmos in your veins;
i am proud of you—
it must be difficult to handle
that much beauty and power
and this is why their scales
only last up to 10—
because they can only see
the milky way
when you are
the whole universe*
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
What I wouldn't give to hide
and break the glass covering my mind
release the tension as it builds up
relieve the steam
let loose the dreams
smell the new horizon spanning my fate
look across my mind's ocean
and forget all of the commotion
caused by my own brain’s turmoil
fixed in the work of turning the soil
the labor, the toil, spanning generations.
Discovering new fields and meadows of the mind
would help, not hinder
a cerebrum such as mine
expanding further past the shore
deeper into the metaphorical earth of conscience
but instead I await a rescue
for, what simply more could I do?
the lines of capable and not so are thicker than before
and I'm on the side of failure
my continuance is dependent upon my hindered success
my mind and my clothes and my body's a mess
I want the shake and break the glass encasing my brain
crack the display case
do more than what is required
but how can I do more when I can't do less?
How can I derail this train of thought that I will never be the best
and I might not even be good.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
“What can a poem do?”
—————————-
***”A poem
is a not a tourniquet
when you’re bleeding.
It’s not water when you’re thirsty
or food when you’re hungry.
A poem can’t protect you from an airstrike,
or from abduction, or from hate.
It’s hard to write when our words feel
like they’re not enough—they can’t do
the real, tangible work of saving lives,
or making people safer.”***
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
<~>
as is my wont,
I write,
as is my Natted~inhabited,
retiring to the local watering holes of
Cerebrum & Cerebellum,
them regular haunts,
where all requests are mailed, processed, satisfied & marked;
‘return & render to the sender, who’s on a cerebral ******
and that request?
‘give me the words’ (2)
those ‘to do’ words, floaters, direct to top of list,
those ‘can do’ words, that can effect the affect,
spare the despair, realize the fungible, concretize cures,
soften hard waters, giving a worsening worn life fabric a
curated baby blanket feel, a 4-ply human tissue of
‘words that tell me everything’ (2)
salve solution verbs that bounty-wipe spills in entirety,
vacuum up spillage spoiling of 17 days of terrible nouns,
uncovered-unknown rages caused by inflicting prepositions
released a hatred rising,
safety rebury it deeper, drug & destruct the sleeper agents,
and let me start over again with
‘telling me everything by saying nothing’ (2)
the pausal silence, the quieted spaces tween the heartbeats,
where ‘reflection,’
the noun,
and its world of alternations,
reflection,
the noun,
look inwards, but shining outward,
this, this!
is where the poem goes to do!
enervating & arresting
its contradictory powers
rock you into wild docility,
possessive and submissive,
contradictory interferences,
smoothing the roughness,
closing the gaps it opens,
healing the caused truthful cuts,
with words that tell you
everything and nothing,
open the holes, filling the gaps,
that is what a
poem do,
in and by
the manner it is spoken…
<~>
“Sometimes a poem is the stone you carry in your pocket—the one you rub when you’re worried. Let’s fill our pockets with poems.”
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
welcome to the world
milk larder
atlas killer
welcome to the universal mind
your presence has not been anticipated
no bells rung at your birth
but the cosmos shook about a
nanometer
from the force of your creation
spectacular birth even if your arm
is weak
doubtless your good looks will make up the rest
...
no luck there?
you're the down-trodden,
the eclipsed lantern,
the face in odd angles,
wearing the weight of someone's unconditional
..
Lust
but deep in your caved chest
your heart is beating the tribal song
of a jet launching for the sky
the way you felt when you switched wheat
for rye
the turn in your cerebrum going from gluten
to sigh.
but even as the birds coast beside
your jet-stream heart strings
I see your hesitation glistening
shivering at the start line from your magnum opus
and you are shattered
growling lioness courage running from the cannon
exhaust that running lion
until she's panting on her back
sweating vapor into the atmosphere
and you remember that all along
you have been the soulmate of the intangible
you just forgot
and you forgot again.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
-
Passing idea
Clusters a spark
a mundane brainstorm
And as it passes
Through the elastic mind
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before the idea vanishes
Before storm ceases
Mad,
Mad mind
-
Passing idea
space exploded within itself
atomic fusion instigated
The mundane universe
And it expands
Through the elastic space
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before a black-hole
Swallows my universe
to create another one
Mad,
Mad universe
-
Passing idea
Clusters of minds
Until civilizations are fused
Into mundane cultures
And they expand
Through the elastic generations
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before civilization zero
Is both dead and alive
In the schrodinger-like
Transition to civilization one
Mad,
Mad persons
-
Passing idea
Cluster of lonely universes
Until the almighty gravity
Loses its kingdom
To the thought of multiverses
And it expands
Through the elastic kinship
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before multiverses wonder
And discover:
They think, therefore they are.
Mad,
Mad multiverses
-
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
whilst thoughts are passing through my cerebral cortex
Perhaps
Someone inside an earth-like neuron in my brain
Is sitting at his typewriter
With a writer’s block
Trying to make sense of the birth of me:
His equivalent of the big bang
a single atom
Giving birth to the energy
That shaped his universe - my cerebrum
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
Whilst the milky-way and Andromeda
Are to cross through a string of light-like gravitational paths
Perhaps
The conscious of the universe
Ponders my existence
In a form of a passing idea
Mad,
Mad Alireza.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Voluntary abandonment of self
The offering
Surrendered, Often suffered
Daily suppression
Repressed depressions
The stimulating surge for another's light
The refuge and the motivator
Demonstratively strong, innate or acquired
Inner beauty enhanced through struggle
Outer beauty revealed
in the journey of each line and curve
Made better with time
Reemerging
Stepping into confidence
Unapologetic
Wisdom gained, lessons learned
Archived in her cerebrum repository
Self discovery, discernibly aware
With nothing to lose
Bashfulness dismissed
Enlivening pleasures
Guiding and coaxing another to please
Self satisfying if need
An awakened spirit rebounds
An eager voice is found
A woman
Over 40
Blazing anew.
© Tina Thompson
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
happy are the moneylenders
happy are the moneylenders
who charge the egregious rate
of friendship
they sleep with furious calm
their principle well invested, its return guaranteed,
for this lit pinpoint pinprick in their sleepy cerebrum
is the mini red light that illuminates the otherwise
dark bedroom of the mind so they can see and say with
equality and equanimity
I too, am, who I am.
Does this answer the question?
1/7/17 12:56pm
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:
He
*******
lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
**** Off and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.
You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.
So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.
That makes sense.
But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
She is drawn to SATAN like an addict to ******
She burns her fingertips, edging them into candle wax, mourning in the absence of Lucifer
“Dear valentine “she cries in the stark midnight, she won’t give in this time
She licks her raven shot gun, lining all the bullets in the form of pentagram
All she can hear is ringing in her head, he has made her weak,
Dangly calves, wrists scarred, teeth marks on her neck & heart scattered-
Like the ashes of his past lover’s
Traits of an incubus, seducing naïve women
Toying with their hearts, Masking his destructive tendencies, like a Russian politician
Eyes all pleasant lies, lips uttering praises for the rival’s spoken lines
Rough *** wont her mind, her heart wont subdue to his crimes
She is a fighter, he is a sinner
Smoke edged fingertips, lips turning into a wicked glee, bow down to the madhouse queen
Insanity is a welcomed relief, freedom from his infidelity
Pressing on the lever, pointed directly at his cerebrum
“Venomous mind, you should’ve have never thrown your heart in confines, you would have been alive”
CRACK! Led by a passage of dead silence, later morphed into scavengers screeching and agile flapping of inky wings.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
it's three months later
and the tune of our love
still echoes through the labyrinth
of my prozac-poisoned cerebrum
it's the sound of rainy evenings
in whitewashed suburban neighborhoods
overwhelming me
as it ricochets off the cold stone
it's the ghost of your hand
holding mine so tight
and it feels like home
as I stand here alone
even as the symphony changes key
to red hair and bright blue eyes
the cadence of you
still rings in my mind
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Ah, where to begin, take it from the crown,
And roll down the usual bump of your bouncy hairsanality,
Teasing your cerebrum with every spin,
Then quietly continue along your slender necking with a whisper,
To gently land on the heavy shouldering of your broad world,
Resting a moment to tickle loose those knots of compassion,
Move onward carefully, tiptoe to your pendant earlobes,
Grown wise from listening freely, flirting for a subtle nibble.
Lets swing over to perch on the bow of your maple cheeks,
Held up by the strength of your Ernest smile,
A spring of rose petals on a landscape of pure snow,
Alas, how the rose must envy the radiant hue of your lips,
Now, leap off to the cushion of your ample *****
Perfect for nourishing presents of unique creation,
The pounding of your heart, speaks through, ba-dum ba-dum
Half the necessary beat to a lifelong dance, till death.
Next, a slide down the concave curves, slim fitting to your flawless figure,
To carriage at your slender swinging hips,
The favorite resting place of your healing hands,
Supporting the vertebrae that keeps strong your secure dorsal,
Start at the bottom and slowly shiver up the spine,
Only to shake back down with a relieved sigh, past the seeds of life,
And massage down sturdy legs carrying you through strife,
Come to a rest on the tip of your twinkle toes,
Those shine at the end of your lily starfeet.
With hopes that they’re moving to a compass where I mimic north,
And those bright almond eyes cast their gaze through the pane,
Your visage, making the difference between my dawn and dusk.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
why do my thoughts no longer create symphony's?
with metaphors as my orchestra,
I could release the information that crammed and over loaded my cerebrum.
it makes me confused as to why I would neglect that precious side of me.
the special gift that
saved my life.
how could I neglect you?
how could I forget myself?
my anorexic-like spirit is
so hungry for the taste of my memorie's return.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Knotted Cord
Rebekah- Hebrew, meaning - Captivating; knotted cord. Wife of Isaac in the Old Testament.
I am a knotted cord,
Of chattering reactions,
and alphabetical perceptions
straining to elude me.
A tangle of cerebrum crammed to my cranium
snarled loops that hear light in code,
or see voices through pulsating synapses.
I am a knotted cord,
A grey rope of countless nucleotides;
fashioning my own skintight survival manual
from my own regenerating song.
Rough edged coils of yesses and noes,
Spiraling into collected silence.
I am a knotted cord,
A scrambled array of ambition,
Stitched with the lethargy
of an unraveled thread.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
i don't think i'll play
with pleasant words
tonight -- i'd rather
upset you with my
honesty than delight
you with laughably
phony repartee.
excuse the graphic aspect
but i'm not in the business
of acknowledging faux pas.
a reflection on state of mind;
i'd say solid, though somewhat
soft and liquid as well, like
a plate of spaghetti for brains,
i can't figure out which strand
of grey matter is meant for me
and which is supposed to be
slurped up by lady and *****
nor whether it is my pituitary
or my hypothalamus which is
destined to be taken home
in a doggy bag for seconds.
i really am lost.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased
or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud
I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement
I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass
You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read
But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain
I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
this time something feels different
this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face
this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever
i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue
this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity
this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms
this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace
because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused
i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream
i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt
i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us
i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands
someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy
someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination
someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Let me see you at your core,
Your very tip of the root.
Without your make up,
Or your eye liners,
Let me see you face to face.
Just your fresh face,
And with all your glorious wrinkles,
Your purists form of your face.
I'll kiss you on your precious forehead,
On your smooth cheeks,
Then on your big red lips.
Brushing upon your back
then move to the beats of your chest,
and two nerves connect with each other's pulse
Like two symbiotic impulse understanding each neurons,
while passing through cerebrum to metaphysical emotions.
All the angst to the deep fears we share,
then come to a reconciliation that we are one,
and we shall be invulnerable.
That no matter the time,
or end of time,
and in after life become invincible.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
I am cursed as a thinker
To be wandering in the cerebrum
That in every small detail
Comes a big issue
To believe that something small
Could possibly erupt the earth
Is something extraordinary
That grasped my deep attention
A pebble
Could build mountains
A microorganism
Could cause infections
A bullet
Could **** a person
And a speech
Could win the hearts of millions
I'm stuck here for eternity
Thinking quietly
Though I am a cursed thinker
The wisdom in my soul constantly becomes deeper
Maybe one day, I'll share my wisdom with the world
That even a speck of dust, there is so much to behold
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Dare to tell others of their capability
Do their hearts receive the required facility
Ask them, hurdles in their way you'll know
Not the slightest clue of their ability
Do you reside in their brain or what
System's present in the frontal lobe but
You're not from the cerebrum are you?
If not, then just keep your mouth shut
They're able but most can't show
It takes time to cook the dough
Lack of Confidence or fear of insult
But people like you just don't grow
It be the others or may it be you
Concentration will lead them through
Quite capable and filled with potential
Grow hatred or love, they'll respect you too
One good deed,
Grant free tokens of knowledge from your shelf
The changes in life, you'll witness yourself
Capable am I and so is everyone!
One who believes, may it be anyone..
c. Teeri
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
Dark circles around my eyes move to the table
But they seem to be less permanent there.
A night of small glasses turns into a morning of tall mugs
Both filled to the brim with fake happiness
And false healing.
One more sip will make me forget
But one more cup will make me remember.
Playing tug-of-war in my cerebrum.
My hands pour another cup
But my eyes can't grasp that concept
So these burns on my hands are the only reminders
Of last night
Along with the bruises on my side
And the throbbing in my ears
All of which will fade
Like the disappointment of my adventures.
I can't shy away from all light
But all it does is highlight my flaws.
So I throw on a long sleeve shirt
That covers my palms
Because the last thing I need is a Physic
Telling me my past
As I walk down streets
I wish I could have forgotten months ago.
But the fabric is so thin
The wind even knows what I'm trying to hide.
I'll plug myself into my fake world
And I'll tell you it's to protect myself
But really
I'm saving you from adding me to your list of lifetime disappointments.
Because that's all I'll ever be
In my own eyes.
I'll walk home
Hair frizzed
Makeup smeared
Because I couldn't be bothered with the mirror
Or the mirror couldn't be bothered with me.
So say your prayer for me
I wonder if God will listen
Because every time I call
I go straight to voicemail
And I'm tired of crying on an answering machine
That nobody checks.
My winter coat isn't even strong enough to protect me
But maybe if I added a layer of you
I might finally feel safe.
So please
Make me feel safe.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Can the unattainable be lost?
She pondered while surrounded
by the clutter of excess caused
by the burdens of consumerism.
To be on an endless journey, an
odyssey of sorts, with plenty of
valuable moral messages, but an
obvious lack of conclusion. Is
there worth? She had found
herself on such a path and
recently resolved that it was
one from which she would
never disembark. Searching
for a way to dive deep into
the sea of words swimming
within her cerebrum, in order
to pluck away the excess gunk
and strike gold. Years slipped by,
at first unnoticed, except for
the measure of improvement
upon lined pages. Still, she was
unsatisfied, and would most likely
always remain in such a state.
Somehow she had been born a
prisoner of her own mind.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
Everything is in chaos, but lasting us
A split second, you blink your eyes
Take a breath
Credulous, yet benevolent
Mind chasing
Awaiting new thoughts, like meteors
To explode across your cerebrum
Feelings in eardrums
From the sounds around you
Constant axon arousal
Enticingly guides you
On the path to feel
Alive
With an adrenaline skeleton
Complex, trying to fit in
But really, "who are you?"
Because sometimes thoughts succumb
Beyond your grasp, and they numb the way you feel
And in those moments, we define our ideals
Almost
Soley based on the bad things
Instead of realizing
We should not define ourselves for the chaos and chatter we internally ramble on with
About half of us
Cant mold an identity anyway
Cause we don't understand
The word is not meant to be
What it's said to be
Identity's definition
Is not definite
You see
It's more like a clumsy representation
Of what you want to be
Since you are ever changing
With the vibrations of thought
Think of identity being more associated with how you adapt
To everything thrown your way
What defines you is how you display yourself
When chaos itself
Comes into your life
Everyone has strife, cause life is not easy
Just don't think you're alone
Or have a mental disease
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC