Come Sunday that day of leisure
Between sulci fish shallow gyri
Reel out meter form a measure
Come Sunday that day of leisure
Weekday words weakly pleasure
Scarcely etch decay'd papyri
Come Sunday that day of leisure
Between sulci fish shallow gyri

I never had much of an ability to be anything except an emotional disaster. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside of my head, and when I did it was usually to dive headfirst into the head of someone else. I spent the vast majority of my daily life in a broken-down shell of myself masquerading as someone that had their **** together. For some reason, people accepted the facade. That’s what they usually ended up liking.
    I always regarded myself as a disease. I had an incubation period that was relative to how long it took someone to get me to trust them. After that, the cells of my disease would rapidly multiply and explode, permeating the membranes of all of their senses and rationalities. My disease would break through the double-helix of their DNA and integrate itself in the fragile bridges of their nitrogenous bases, reflecting adenine for their thymine, cytosine for their guanine until finally the helix reunited, delicately interconnecting the chromosomes as I spilled out all the worst sides of myself.
    The infectious agents of my toxicity would then slowly descend the ladders of hydrogen bridges and filter back out through the phospholipid bilayer to swim freely into their bloodstream, swimming through their veins to seek out the nervous system. Freely hopping along synapses, my disease gently touches neurons and triggers proteins buried deep inside their nuclei, causing the slow degradation and eventual apoptosis, killing off the ability to recognize that I am not a normal person.
    The electrical impulses spread from axon to axon, igniting a ridiculous idea that I am no disease. The toxins follow the impulses, riding along the shockwaves. The toxins arrive in the mind and slide off the branches of electricity to hold fast to brain proteins, forcing them to take on the shape of the toxins and eroding holes in all the neural processing centers that govern reason and logic, robbing the person of the ability to detect all the red flags I wave frantically in front of their faces.
    The toxins slide into the erosions and stand upon the corpus callosum, the delicate connection between the cerebral hemispheres, and wonder at the magnitude of the destruction they cause. They take a running start and leap from hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, skipping between the associative areas and primary cortices so the immune system cannot ever catch them.
They settle in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of neural power, the orchestra of complex thought. The toxins settle deep into the gyri and sulci, wedge themselves into the folds of all the grey matter.
Once infection is over, once I have eroded the very cytoskeletons that hold their cells together, they breathe, “I love you.”

There there, little soul
Blaze with fire, harvest the cold
Under the shade of canopy
Shadowing overgrown trees.

Dandelion smiles
Roses flies
Daffodil cries
Peony arrives

A billion conscience neurons
Meandered through the sulci and gyri
A brilliant universe of all
The vast freedom of human mind.

i'm lost in a maze of gyri and sulci
tiptoeing over memories
triggering reflexes still out of my control
over an irreparable foundation
what is the use in trying to piece scraps together
when the final product is no work of art
but an unpalatable ******* of a thing
that once was called love

These words remain untitled,
Unsure of their real label.
Do they tell a story of loss or of love?
Of confusion, no doubt.
So many emotions, yet still no left words to describe.
The darkness in which I sit, is almost defining.
The quiet rings against my worn eardrums.
Night, which brings solace to others, brings uncertainty to me.
For I am a victim of tomorrow’s antics.
Memories and dreams draw near to each other,
The pair, a frightening combination.
Torment rakes through my night,
Leaving no sane survivor.
The moon pokes at my eyes to keep me awake.
My regrets and potentials poke at my brain.
Mistake after mistake after mistake,
There is a future out there for me that holds a similar fate.
The question echoes in those ringing ears of mine again.
It stretches and folds against my gyri.
There is no escaping the poison in the thought.
Is who I am enough?
These words remain untitled,
Afraid of their real label.

i ride her grayed gyri,
slipping from crest to crest
as it undulates
into dank sulci; trough of her troubles
mirroring, i think, my own
interpretation of hers,
and of mine:
and this
entwine, it writhes
like lithe yeses
half-whispered, half-glossolalia secreting babbles
from faces wasted by pushpull cravings eaten.

My brain is a graveyard
Where cobwebs collect
Through gyri and sulci
The harvestmen tread

The widows float down
Painted black and red
Armed with venom
And needle and thread

They sing as they spin
A chanty of doubt
Stuffing my skull
Til ghosts leak out

And when they have
All had their say
And my spine grows centipede legs
And crawls away

I sink sink sink
Into the ground
And even the arachnids
Cannot draw me out.

your whole body becomes a map made for me
to explore the uncharted territories
conquer the lands where I see fit to leave my mark
to seek and record with eyes and hands what is tangible
but I wish, more than anything, that I could uncover
your mind, your soul, your core, your being
to find my way under your skin as you have mine
the topography of your brain is a beautiful landscape
I want to study your phenomenology
to become a cartographer of your sulci and gyri
come to know the lines and ridges of your consciousness
create new methodology to observe and transcribe
your brain is a fingerprint unique, and yours
all the more beautiful for it's belonging

You fill spaces in my head
I did not know existed.
Maybe you are the gyri and sulci themselves.
I was looking for something else
I thought I could see clearly
and that is the worst way to find love.
Somehow you found your way to me.
I made a home beneath your bones
without the proper tools
and before I could look up you were there
needing me too.

Seal this poem in a sheath of black and red lurex.
Attend a Hamar bull-jumping and seek whipping. Preserve scars in honeydew and kykeon.
Walk your familiar for at least an hour. They’ll be tired and won’t try to eat you while you sleep.
Drink a brew warm and entheogenic. Leave space in the morning to feed visions that may have spent the night.
Listen to a soft but attritional piano to wear down the centers of ennui. Satie works best.
Assemble a snack of pomegranate and snow. Shun sleet! This atrophies the gyri and leads to flower amnesia.
Arrange one’s hair into a Fresco.
Follow the pentagram of Venus through a telescope of Zeiss lenses the colour of blood.
Recline on a sofa upholstered in chintz patterns of Low's pitcher-plant.
Settle all debts in this life and the next.
Light beeswax candles and let the moths in.
Unsheathe and read this poem aloud through a conch dipped in soy paint.
Note the hour of Saturn's return.
Burn this poem.

Breathing down my neck like a serpent  
Controlling the extent of the microns my diaphragm moves
Gazing into my eyes and going straight inside
Unravelling through all the sulci and the gyri
Putting a veil over my cognition
Below which my existence screams to survive
The veil so velvety and smooth
Luring me to dance
Dance to the enchnanting sound hissing in my ears
To the musky scent filling in my breath
To the seductive suffocating of the veins on my neck
To the chilling of the blood under those veins
To the groping and crushing of my muscles
To the crackling of my bones
To the numbing of all noise and pain  
To the shutting off the lids, until
Until I feel levitated into a sweet sleep
Disappearing under the cold, leathery skin.