I'm trying to forget you
thought by slipping thought
but my neurons keep exciting
and my gut keeps getting caught

By transmitted intervention
masquerading memory
a chemical reaction
molecular machinery

I’d blame my plasma membranes
but they're doing naturally
the things that plasma membranes do
as cytoplasmic boundaries

**** these activated receptors
and my synaptic cleft
by strengthening potentiation
without you I am bereft.

Biologically
a composition of
cytoplasmic fragments of melanophores
self-centering
their microtubule polarity
  reverses
when severed
  outward
from that center
located arm central
implicating
their pigment containing
cells
  red white yellow
black
  are so much like us.
We are not chameleons,
  though,
we need luminescent bacteria
  to breed
under our skins,
  then-we will all
glow together.

You're pretty and you know it
using those glassy eyes to tame -
my heart's suckered 'n you know it,
post-*** love purely (surely?) to blame

my mind melts as I grow weak at the knees
your gaze flitting from sultry to predatory -
blood gushes, adrenalin flushes
sweat dripping upon my skin lust-crazy, expectedly

oh I'll burn these nervy butterflies
with this blistering searing fury,
argh, stop this Pretence girl
'cause it's just starting to bore me -

Mind Control to Inner Soul;
"what's your status?"

Inner Soul to Mind Control;
"help! The guts are dead and the heart is fractured!!!"

my body slowly dying, polluted sick
with the caustic affection you instil
"WARNING; cytoplasmic deterioration imminent -
extreme ******-***** overkill!"

for now I know I must give up the chase
the Neurones have received a final transmission (oh please no, it can't be);

"This is .. Inner Soul to Mind Control..
we're all so tired.. so tired .. so .. sleepy - - -"

*CLICK

Thought catalyzed by stimulus.

A change in electrical impulses which burst and branch from outstretched, pink-tipped fingers.
Signal which travels thousands of multifaceted miles that curl and weave amongst themselves as highways of
Impulse.
Nerves act as roads that facilitate reaction.

Conception born from vibrations, undulating and deepened waves.

Concept begot from color gradients.
Cones, rods, and darkness absorb light into their small oblivion.
Each detecting.
Reflection and refraction of pure white—
Energy

Electrical signals, as firecrackers, flicker and ignite a flame within the mind,
The cytoplasmic, grey mass.
A paradoxical recognition of self.  
Beings of electrical processes and mechanics.

The subconscious acts as a blueprint in its seemingly endless convoluting of chemical coding.

Consciousness spirals out to the depths within what is unknown,
A place with no agenda and no aspiration.
Until the mind recoils back to the comforting space which encompasses the forefront of one’s faintly
Surfacing thoughts.

a lifetime of gestation;
of making myself,
of bringing myself
back from you,
of trying to get over someone I was
only ever under.

bend me, shape me
whichever way you’d like me
for I could be the apple of your eye if only you’d
let me;
- kiss me to
      pulp

you turned me inside out,
naked,
viscerally
      exposed -
heart beating tenderly not upon my sleeve but
atop my inverted chest;
I asked you to cradle it,
care
      swat me like a fly;
      a throwaway affair.

saying you care about ‘this’,
but not me, I think

      lacklustre lover lacking the
      love in the
      - making

and above all, I keep thinking about how unrequited love
is the sweetest kind of self-inflicted wound.
something that never was shouldn’t be so much,
      oh but it hurts just right.

I’m forever pulling cells,
bits of myself apart to
examine, deconstruct.
cytoplasmic, holding it all together,

I'm just looking at your scars, you said.
      would you like to add another?

suture me then pick me apart
- I’d let you.
It's not your fault you didn't
know, don't
know how I feel, not really;
I don't want you to run
better to have a piece of you than
      none.

we only do this to ourselves,
I don't blame you.

this mouth tastes like an ashtray
I'm sorry,
it’s just that a lot of sweet nothings have died and
burnt away in here before they could be said.

everything changes yet it all stays the same
we know how this story goes,
so please don't tell me I'm
beautiful from all angles
because I can’t take it. I can’t.

rising for him, a flowerbed for the spring
blush as pink, which,
bleeding into the edge of the skyline at sunset,
anamorphic, consumes.

      [HE LOVES ME HE LOVES ME NOT
      HE LOVES ME HE LOVES ME NOT]

my heart is so heavy
with the ways in which I love you
quickening,
the birth of something new -
or maybe I just have a penchant for self-destruction.

and on getting out alive:
we’re all here,
doctoring our hearts,
recovering from the cataclysm of it all.

Whilst Gandhi homosexed his homosexy **** across India's frontier
white captors shook under the Raj's prohibition of Leffe Blond beer
& proctologic probes, ****** lubes & other buggery-facilitating gear
that made it thrillin' to hang backside-up like a royal navy brigadier
whose furloughs were porked by a toothless, salt-gatherin' mutineer
reliant on the sedition of a Hindu ½-caste, 5th column pamphleteer
with the power to render a beggar from a Bihar Province financiere
in the wink of a pink eye dies a marginal, market-manglin' profiteer
castigated, beleaguered & burked afore burial in Earth's lithosphere
that tricks atop, beneath, under & underneath Indira's sloppy veneer
At a glance the dance pants of Vivian Vance were enhanced by ants
so as to put in a stance of advanced trance manse plants that prance
by ****** chance rants that lance the nuts of *****, slopes & slants
My *** belongs, along with my dead heart, to Anchorage, Nebraska
which is readily contused with the bloodily-bruised Omaha, Alaska
that's praised like Jesus God by tenants, overnight renters & leasers
& Texican-Haitian-barrio rats that spooks derogatorily call greasers
in Aussie hinterlands where flocks of sheep breed with gay fleecers
who flame out at 60 like Liberty Avenue's sick sock-cucking teasers
while they're sockdologizing a crooked clientele of ½-spent geezers
iced plenty for vicious crammin' into Maytag-coffin-model freezers
with a fiercely-frozen frigidity to flummox farting, chronic sneezers
tweezed out hollow sinus-cavity-wise by the rustiest of ol' tweezers
to the degree of dealin' coronaries to ***** Canary Island wheezers
unfit to dredge ditches, sew kites, buy radial tires, dig palm trees or
****** Miss America till she acquiesces without having to seize her

**** ******, codger dodgers and skinny, Catholicky nuns know it:
lipstick reeks of *** that ain't a mix of beetle-wing slime & bat-****
while granny's shtupped on a V.W. bug dune buggy built from a kit
making it so Martin Luther King, Jr.-easy to be Bayard Rustin's flit
as the Southern Christian Leadership Conference was a ****** pit
before Laura Gemser duped Mike Landon with her Moira Chen bit
recounting plasma trails beneath cytoplasmic effections along a slit
so as to untangle & unfrazzle the tangled, frazzled ends that've split
what will move me further than from where me &  my *** must sit
Folks drunk on joss stick & punk got neurons that makes 'em crawl
There is proof  that Engelbert Humperdinck had more than one ball
when he sings queer-bait Tom Wilson Weinber's “Lesbian  Seagull”
in a voice that is not lesbian-seagull chirpy, ***-crippled-seagull dull
nor as exciting as a muffler's moan from a Sunoco's ****-house stall
whilst in 1945 Desi was balling chicas shorter than Lucille was tall
The constipated man of mystery suffers a clogged, unmitigated gall
as post office toilets aren't for public use like the ******* at the mall
where better offers are pointed like the politico scrawl of Mort Sahl
while sharp leaves that lacerate tails of wipers have softened in fall