"lobes" poems
I'm tested everyday,
Tempted to throw away
The sanity that's kept my mind at bay
If inconveniences are shadows,
then troubles are ink-blotted water
trickling through the canals of my temporal lobes
which causes me to follow
any thoughts of failure instead of success
better to wallow in bed then get dressed
I almost forget that I am blessed.
I aggress the trickling pain
by staring skyward
like a man seeking the opportunity
to fly
soaring above the problems that cloud the eyes
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
We rode the night
like the back of the wind
high on incense and adrenaline
skating through alleys and street signs
The sky lay dark and glittery
as if it were covered in cheap jewelry
like the earrings that hanged from my lobes
that your lips touched when you kissed my neck
It was a night to remember
with the person you love
without one **** to be given
except about this moment.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.
If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Oh mighty powerhouse and largest gland
Snug in the abdominal cavity
Though few thy function fully understand
Should praise thee with the utmost gravity
Three pounds thy weight, but worth thy weight in gold
Four precious lobes through portal fissure fed
Tiny lobules in hexagonal mould
Each one formed by cuboidal cells widespread
Arranged in columns round a central aisle
Converting glucose into glycogen
Form plasma proteins and essential bile,
A, D, prothrombin and fibrinogen
De-aminates the protein that we eat
De-saturates the fat, produces heat
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I envy her, the ashen girl
submerged within her flames -
with burning lobes and burning robes
but smiling all the same.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
Broken-record words,
twirl in the lobes of a brain.
Don’t play again.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC
I feel the walls of my mentality breaking down. The defense mechanism has failed. My weakness has been found.
Bombs bombard my frontal lobes. How much time do I have left? That's a question nobody knows.
But the army of stress wages through. Setting fire and killing cells,
torturing them as the army continues to move.
My head throbs with pain, my legs join my arms in what feels like an earthquake; Heart pounds with tremendous force, my body is on a crash course.
The room becomes an amusement park ride. While different moods pass me by. Day after day the symptoms increase. Today may be the day when I accept defeat.
Socializing has become a thing of the past, all I have is panic attacks. Happiness has finally been lost. Without a map, and at what cost?
Control center has been compromised. Here I am, I have met my demise.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
it’s quiet and i hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder
i hear nothing but the paper
burn as my inhale imitates the gust of
wind that guides the cold to shutter skin —
street lights sit above the lit, white-flowered flakes
as they dance to the ground as a group
that whisper soliloquies to the crimson
lobes that hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder,
a hazy fog covers the air before my face
as it sways from nostril to upper lip —
a sight down to an illuminating ash,
blinking to meet a lid to whited lash —
as the paper burns
the smokey sky is content
with silence and nothing more
than a look to the fields MJB
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
How do you sleep, eyes opened or closed? Ears listening or ignoring? Senses awoken or dreaming?
I have slept many times, and I've slept many ways. Dreams can be humorous, distant, terrifying, long, short; even beautiful.
Laying on grass, I can feel every single blade of it and the moist dew, I assume it's morning. I feel a gentle wind roll over my soft skin and hear the susurration of the wind, caressing my ear lobes tenderly in passing. I've yet to open my eyes, yet, I see countless possibilities in the vastness I Feel Surround Me.
Slowly, I stir from what must have been a deep sleep, my eyes open and I squint to assuage the pain caused by blinding sunlight.
It's too much to take in. A beautiful landscape. Mountain ranges that cover miles, rivers that flow with elegance yet viciousness, animals of every kind. It all lays before me. I'm humbled by the pulchritude of every little detail in front of these eyes...
I drift effortlessly to the nearest tree and softly place my palm on it, feeling the rough bark against my supple skin, taking note of the fragrance of fresh trees: the boon of mother nature.
Walking slowly down a steep slope and to the edge of a rather large drop, I think to myself, "I feel close," without warning, feeling the wind whip my face as the ground draws closer in an instant. The earth is hurtling towards me, I'm not scared. Impact is made and I bounce, the softness of my mattress telling me I've arrived, back in the real world; the comforting disappointment envelops me, as I realise....Yet another dream short-lived.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
Lines of life through gene transmission
When handed down through *****
Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched,
Are caste about like coins.
Luck ensures a robust chance
Of longevity and health
With intelligence or dolt hood
As a final gauge to wealth.
Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies
Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb,
Temperaments across the spectrum
Placid fat to fiery slim.
Aptitude to run the long race
Good endurance, depth of heart,
Lady luck decrees their worth
Tho' the Priesthood may depart.
Frontal lobes of clear retention
Heightened rationale of thought,
Reasons through the problematic,
Resolutions made as ought.
Capacity to empathise
In tears of joy and sorrow spent,
Capacity for true belief
When wrong is righted with repent.
Goodness and black evil
Are caste about like chaff,
Depends upon the show of cards
Who laughs the final laugh.
Conscience can be virtuous
But then, so can be greed,
Depends upon the circumstance
And if approached at speed.
And finally indulgence
Plays a massive hand in this,
For love and lust determine
If a union is remiss.
And should that union founder,
Should Lady Luck throw in her hand
...You can blame it on the chromosomes
Which confounds the Makers stand!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
14 June 2011
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
i reach in and silently grasp
the motionless windsong
the captured bird
and with deft fingers release its bindings
with a phrase give tender to its
timid fire
with intent i set in motion the
captivation by slow roses
the freedom by the scarce better graces
of humanity's collective soul
the thoughts are sticky
engraved with each meaning softly embedded
into its thick skin
the carefully crafted box
of her smile
each detail lovingly attended
each lined honed with precision
she fine tunes her perfect form
and spray bottles the scents
one for public consumption
the other for me alone
enthrones her earrings in edible lobes
and with zealous care places a bead necklace
in the sweating sweet expanse of naked skin
of her open polo shirt collar
shakes out her hair
with a little version of dancing sitting down
while singing along with phish
and then she catches me open lustful staring
and laughs
'want some...come get it babe'
her tennis outfit
misplaced on the shopping center floor
is neatly wrapped around her in a mixture
of loose and tight
devious adventure for the eyes
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
The many martyrs of boredom
make haste to their next death,
They nestle in their noodles
Over bowls of ramen
Ramming their frontal lobes in their palms,
In hazy rooms, staring in the hearts of tinted corridors
Dim lit lamps stand courageous,
Smoking kettles,
alarms the listener to lunge merrily
to,
his lazy lagoon
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
I’ve got splinters in my smile from where
supporting beams were yanked away
lips tumbling to the ground.
Crashing into a pile of
cracked words and rotting promises
that they whispered into my mouth.
Come along and walk past the *******
compiled from pieces of frontal lobes and broken vocal cords
unable to ever remember the vibrations
that once worked as a fireplace heating the soul.
But I invite you to rebuild.
Be my master builder.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Our temporal lobes have neurons whose sole purpose
Is to recognize faces
You see, humans are meant to be connected
Our bodies should vibrate
From the sounds of emotional resonance
We are meant to be seen,
Really seen, delving deeply into streams of running water
Where our vulnerability makes love with our experience
And this need is so great, that day after day, year after year,
We open our mouths with hope
That our words can share a meaning with someone
But mostly, we are left colliding
Or surviving near misses
Driving through relationship guardrails
Over the edge into desperation
We are left holed up in separate hospital beds
Isolated by IV drips of disappointment
Until we tell ourselves that true happiness is a myth
And the word “soulmate” was intended for everyone else
This used to be me
And it used to be you
When I awoke this morning
Remnants of our laughter were singing on your pillow
There are 86 lashes on your right, upper eye lid
I can almost see them listening to me
Conduits for comprehension
As I speak,
You turn your ear so it can graze my lips
I whisper while I stare at your profile
Blinking, gentle smile lines
And my heart lunges toward yours like a magnet
I have crawled inside your pupils
To be covered with wet, black paint shining
From your spirit outward
Opposite of indifferent
Our faces so close that I can taste you breathing
This strange sensation is the absence of fear
I. See. You.
I have always known you
I can pull the IV out of my arm
Because what keeps me alive,
Is that you know me too
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
the presence of your breath
down the nape of my neck
goosebumps
encaptivate fields of epithelium
ravaging my integumentary system
follicle by follicle
the touch of your lips
color my cheeks
like the red of holi
marking every cell
every junction
as conquered territory
the gaze of your eyes
occipital lobes, is it?
strip me naked
without a touch
simple introspection
I really can't get enough of this anatomy
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
I won't loud my guts to say you don't mean what you say about loving me. Because,the peace of mind you bring,no one has ever brought a piece of the whole you gave on a platter of moments. But,sometimes I'm a girl and even though my auditory lobes hears it every moment that you love me as much as I do... I'm a visual learner,I need it acted out as much as you say it.
If your loving me were so loud,snitches wouldn't dare to form cocky talks,bitches would lay low when I walk with my head high. Dudes that acts like they know it all,won't point fingers at our love that its unrequited.
Now,
I'm not saying you should displease yourself to please me,
I'm not saying you should become someone else to earn me
I'm either not demanding too much
I just need you to show the world more visual actions,so that the world will stop thinking I'm an obsessed ***** trying to make the acclaimed unrequited love,reciprocal.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
grip it harder
till the breath can only seep out
tears are what I seek out
get you angry
see how you **** me now
bruises with a howl
a predator on the prowl
prey on me.
lay on me.
make it reckless
turn it fowl
sink your nails into my shoulder blades
your teeth into my ear lobes
***** whispers,
I want to hear those
insincere flows
just two interconnected weirdos
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
I bought a cow
Purchased her with but words
She works for me now
Grab her by the teats I need
Her drink to live
I swallow milk, keeps me strong
Despite this relationship
all wrong, that she provides
green needs
It's all I want
I used to have a cat, cute
andro-trans boy alien
He ****** my ****
Swallowed *** and ****** me raw
Walls fall apart
Every new best thing sinks and stinks
Under the barn,
I bought a barn
Under which the missing bodies compost
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.
Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery
What a bunch of crap.
I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating
Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth
I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks
Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
*I am not one of these leather wearing ******* you see on **** sites. I am real. I listen to 911 calls on repeat. Images of gore, abortions, death, and torture fill me with unbridled lust.
Humans are amazing... Their build, their skin, with billions of embedded pain receptors. Optic nerves, sending horrific images directly into their frontal lobes. I love their faces, tiny changes in their expressions with different types and increments of pain.
There is such a glorious range and variety of pain that can be inflicted upon a human. Few appreciate the sublime canvas of a humans body. Each sense can be tweaked and tormented. All of there emotions can be played like an instrument, by someone with the right skills and tools. Their screams are sublime.
There is a certain kind of scream a person lets out, the moment they realize their own mortality, but it is beyond words. It makes me see red. I lust for it. I adore it.
I am free. I am not bounded by your conceptions of morality. ****** **** and torture are simply choices. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want to whomever I want. Whether it is one death, a million, a billion, or an entire planet or the entire universe, it means less than nothing to me. I have no ideology, religion, or higher purpose. If the slab of meat and chemicals you call your mind is searching for a word to append to me, just think of me as an artist. My medium is flesh.
I walk among you. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I have studied the human body, peeled back the layers of flesh, the emotions. I see right through you. I am the nice, unassuming person you know. We share secrets. Some of you like me. Some of you love me.*
None of you know me.
I am, sadist.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 9:18 AM UTC
Fifty-percent illusion at any given time.
Your unintended muse will plead 'not guilty' to the crime
Of snatching back the quill and reshaping every line
into the role she wished to play
-- it seems the choice was never mine --
but the boy with the weighted wedding ring,
the self-appointed jury of the south;
him sheepish at the door with roses,
and the brute who owns this house.
Was it feminine mystique or was I crystal clear
while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
A three-act structured tragedy.
All archetypes assigned.
"We've had this date since the beginning" --
if the part must be mine to play,
it is in my hands to manipulate.
Direct your blame to those who cast the roles.
Torn petticoat, blue piano;
flattered by the dimming glow --
oh, to be glossy pink and gold!
A trophy bride. A victor's prize.
(I snap awake and still see his eyes --
that ego swells him thrice my size --
with bruising force, he parts my thighs.)
Was it hysteria - madness? - or was I crystal clear
while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
My fate was written for me,
in the frontal lobes of those who came before me:
down that narrative route, all bumps and troughs -- desire!
Fragments of an old Rossetti poem... o, vanity of vanities... the streetcar rattles and groans.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
I look at You
and I succumb,
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --
The daemons of centuries
sprawl out the hairs on their legs,
crawl into our skulls
through ears that hear
and bob their lobes
to the twang of sinew
threading together
the tongues of banshees
howling at the moon:
Leeches and ticks
crawl up our spine
when night mares gallop
through the swamp of maggots
crawling in the rye.
Eight and eight
still make one
when the knots are untied
and the gut is done:
All the unknowns,
the variable gales,
the possible parallels
and the impossible
imposters, two:
Fuel to the face of these fears
I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender
to the daemons of centuries,
let them wash over in hues . . .
And I hold on,
because letting go,
this time,
is far more dangerous
than loving You
Is it not the death of eye
meeting death to eye
that ushers
Sacred offspring
out of the light
into the glowing arms of the womb?
Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --
I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
It's as if I can feel every cell of my being illuminating.
Everything my fingers touch is electrifying.
My face aches from the corners of my lips relentlessly kissing the lobes of my ears.
Every word spilling from mouth is as dire as the need for air in my lungs.
My body is restless and weightless.
There is no euphoria I can't reach.
No amount of ecstasy I can't handle.
Complete bliss, if only for the moment.
Just as quickly as this paradise was built, even faster it disintegrates.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC