"lobotomies" poems
"You could be a doctor!"
Yeah I could- Neurosurgery still allows
LOBOTOMIES
right?
(Tell me something I don't know)
"Why is it so slanted?"
Its trying to dodge your
OBVIOUS
conclusions.
(Show me better)
"How can you even read it?"
Maybe
just
maybe
because
ITS MINE??
(Someone get me away from this guy)
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family
She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year
But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile
One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her
They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"
My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-fuck
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
I want you to fall in love, with my mind.
They say that romance is dead.
Aesthetic adoration is too easy to find.
I will dig deeper, doting the components of your head.
I ask that you return the favour.
No need for laboratory lobotomies.
There need not be forced labour.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.
And my mind on my mandibles.
I speak it. Repeat it.
The source inches above my clavicle.
It is replete with ****
But it has it's moments too.
Though it's subject matter is grey,
a lot rings true,
from this pinkish purée.
I want you to find the harmony,
with my spinal chord.
And say with absolute certainty:
We will never be bored.
The feelings, that from my brain stem,
will be fully frontal.
From my toes to my cerebellum,
I would be yours, in total.
I want to fall in love with your mind.
Invest me in your intellect.
It will take time.
But it's all temporal in introspect.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Roses are red, violets are blue
My bones are broken, my skin black and blue
Why do you keep beating me on the head with that shoe
You tore out my eyes, intestines and testicles too
Let me bleed for a while, then made a *** of stew
You’re so dam crazy, it’s too late for me, if only I knew
How you like to perform lobotomies, after you sniff glue
The last one oozed brain mater, which you began to chew
It seems that Quentin Terintino has nothing on you
Some things so scary I can’t mention, they are very taboo
Beware all you naive boys, she’s the devil in a tou tou
She’ll **** on you more than what can be found at a Zoo
Her lies filled my head, stretching it till it popped and blew
Wait! Or was it the explosive poisons she put in my shampoo
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
The Value of life is measured by the price of fossil fuels.
Trespassers enter the periphery. They seek no mentor; they do as they please.
Looking for a seat in the dark; They crave fresh meat They roast Joan of Arc.
Sing all those whom wish to wash away the strife Those with the deepest dark shine.
Become one of the idols when you stare into the shadow of denial.
Inhaling the anesthesia, the French horn player develops amnesia.
The singer in a suit and tie wished for his forgiveness only to be denied.
He was the one who forgot while I was the one completely distraught.
Crowded in back stage, the joys of the night doesn’t ease my aching feet.
Poetry accompanied by music, when girls are becoming bulimic.
And boys are receiving lobotomies all in the name of notoriety.
So once more sing of love and stars. See the sky glow red from Mars.
For this is the last of us, the means are now just.
Let’s adore each other, when we stand in the rain we are restored.
The romance of language carries with it a history of pain. You couldn’t tell from a mere glance.
TJW 2013
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
An unethical practice to fully comprehend my existence in
space and time,
I took the world hostage and prodded its inhabitants with
probes and electrodes
only to find myself
conducting self-lobotomies in front of the bathroom mirror;
Gazing through the eyes of McCrae,
I ****** my hands into
pristine soil,
tore up roots and
soldier bones, creating a
garden of chaos
only to find myself
amongst red petals and marrow
strewn across green vision fields,
but the larks still bravely singing fly!
I splattered ******* across
impressions of Monet and Renoir
only to find myself
dripping like
Dali,
screaming like
Munch,
is this what beauty looks like?!
I passed up a
hitch on a
Heart of Gold
only to find myself
in the mire of a
Brave New World,
kicking at the dirt that sent
electroconvulsive shocks
up my spine,
is that a headlight reflection in my Bell Jar?!
I looked down the barrel of my fingertip guns, still smoking and
listened to the hollow wind of my self-inflicted universal entropy...
run.
Through a wormhole,
into the forest of wisdom where I reviewed observational data of my
chaotic string theories,
there I found myself,
rejecting the null and
assembling a fire of new Hope using the
burrs and thistles burrowed under my skin,
scratching and clawing at unethical practice.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
I and Me own different planes within the skull;
I settled in the frontal lobes
Where I can usually vote aye or nay, as it strikes my fancy
Controlling the higher thought, the calculations,
Schedules and contingency plans.
Me dwells deeper, inside the ancient brain;
The place of reptiles, receptacle of instincts
While I dream of ice cream sodas, *** and journeys,
Me might dream of large snakes, have nightly dreams
Of terror, mass exterminations and die-outs,
Experimental lobotomies and spherical supernovas.
Me worships planetary deities and various idols of glazed stone.
I gave up dominance to Me, who can hijack My main processes
When confronted with extreme danger or duress,
In order to have the majority of say the rest of the time.
I and Me get along well mainly because
We are never occupying the same place for long,
Sort of a marriage of convenience;
All my logical reasoning can't turn Me aside
Once her wire gets tripped.
So I spend a lot of time doing damage control-
And hopefully, Me stays asleep.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
to Dani
remember when, you do not:
you are a ground slicing the center of
this home.
the long divide the furniture endures.
in front of the colossal tv
bodies spilled like water.
20 minutes was all it took – your name alone,
a potent hygroscopy.
when close enough:
dissipate. You took all the green the foliage could,
soldered to your body a forest it manifests.
repeated, if not a newer foundling:
the space you take for acquisition ,
the faultless tenancy you mistake as counsel.
every saved for, and gleaming space
aspires for venue – translates to an arena for snapshot.
[some mundane depiction ascribes for you to be known]
years later my portrait still hangs perpetually
on a modern furniture from a contemporary skillset.
take this declaration.
years later, leapt to this day and forward:
the surgery of galvanized steel is reminiscent of a departure.
the tedious laborer smiling through bonsai pots
carrying out lobotomies. The afternoon more sterile than
your face as if operation. This town knows you by practice
and habit: all of it sepia, if not leaden.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Verse 1:
Lost in this cerebral jungle
Stalked by shadows
Facing reality is half the battle
Paranoia and confusion
What is real and what is an illusion?
Resonant whispers misguiding my resolve
There’s nothing that these pills won’t solve
Chorus 1:
Prescribe me tranquility
Synthesized solutions
Prescribe me bliss
Nevermind the risks
Alter consciousness for altar offerings
Verse 2:
Once the catatonic fog was lifted
I saw your wings were broken
Serpent’s tongues deceived me
A shepherd’s crook for a crooked shepherd
Masquerading demi-god’s
You’re nothing but false prophets
Chorus 2:
Prescribe me chemical lobotomies
Synthesized solutions
Prescribe me verity
Science without empathy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
i guess most of us were fooled into writing poetry on a great Pavlov canvas, indeed it's almost a pavlov experiment, but in reverse, seeing much makes people salivate less in terms of how rewards are puzzled together for the next ring of the bell / poem, and seeing little makes people salivate more in terms of how little rewards mean, except for the bell ring / poem itself.
what is it with our modern world
where melancholy used to come naturally
to old men, who at the end of life
sighed that sigh: everything accomplished,
now just a waiting game till my old
friend death will come knocking?
but now old men become demented,
and melancholy has left their orbit and
passed into the world of the young -
what a strange melancholy this is, this
melancholy without that fulfilling sigh:
everything accomplished - oh this sigh
isn't the sigh of melancholy of old age,
it's a sigh of: but so little begun!
the sighed sigh of: but so little begun!
there was a famous exploration of a theory
back in the 19th century when psychiatry
began learning humanism, when it was
decided that psychiatry could have nothing
to do with surgery, and shackles and
lobotomies - when it started to become a branch
of humanism, akin to lounge fiction books
and poetry, and philosophy, no longer
the butchering of askew behaviourism -
those were the days when the old men were
melancholic and the young were demented,
premature dementia crew they called them -
but given the fact: war is all around for glory
and for anything else to don the general's feathered
hat and magpie attracting sparkle of uniforms
adorned by precious jewels like being thanked
for the Battle of the Somme - well the slaughterhouse
rather than a battlefield - yes, near Ypres, a little
town in Belgium, where they still applaud the
"glorious" dead with a trumpet sound at a certain
hour each day under an arch - like that trumpet sound
of St. Mary's each noon, the hejnał, as the
trumpeter was running to the top of the tower
to sound the alarm of the spotted mongol horde,
yes, back then... circumcised eager warriors...
not a single ******** among them to hold them back,
circumcision doubly requiring the soft oyster
pouch of women ended up making men more
daring, more warring...
and as is usual with me, a captured moment of
digression veering off the original topic...
what is it with today's premature depression?
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
Dave slipped on a banana peel
And fell into an accusation of nepotism
And illegible label makers
This was the start of a losing streak
A stifling of his creativity, a hesitation of inspiration
So on and so forth
Cherry did somersaults
And watched the Doppler radar
Snorted lines off a shattered mirror
And quoted tongue twisters
In a car without safety belts
She was a contentious insect
With cauliflower ear
These two divorced a fort night ago due to irreconcilable differences
There was an upheaval in their relationship
After their lobotomies
Just one of the variables
There was pistol with only one bullet which caused them to fuss and fight
Then the argument who would be on top when they went to sleep in their bunk bed
A mahogany end table went through the window and a serpentine stream of blood oozed across the floor
It was an act of petulance on someone's part
Who ever it was got away through their underground passageway
All the connotations of the word "brash"
And gray porous creatures
Are mere trinkets of their die hard love
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Doubt is as fickle as a friend gets,
Only, I doubt our friendship,
saving my life,
I thought,
A by-product of watching television lobotomies,
keeping limbs intact,
Climbing trees was a foolhardy cause overtaken only by the most fervent and restless of souls,
I was a fan of the process,
Because of these bindings
I was content with my books,
electronics became stimulation,
I stood side-lined,
And it took me until I was seven to learn to ride a bike.
So when I started talking,
I doubted I’d get further than I already was,
pauses between syllables were an inferno,
I doubted universal truths,
weren’t you mad?
I apologize frantically to this day,
Much to my dismay,
My self-doubt is a part of me,
Maybe it isn‘t,
It’s a monkey on my back stitched with the threads of restricting apprehension,
I’d rip it off of me if it weren’t so painful to relive the experience of those failings.
From outside of my comfort zone,
Down came the hammer,
And astonishingly,
I stood undaunted,
When the bonds broke,
Doubt said that I wouldn't have,
But maybe, doubt was wrong,
Threads fell loose by the hundreds,
Force was what held us together,
The more I accepted the inevitable,
Becoming like water and adapting to the universe around me,
And we drifted more and more apart,
But also, the less frantic and scared I was,
Until they were gone,
And I became whole.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
1 Method:
Witness nothing but the body
hurtling at best, if not dilapidated.
Cusped in space, never held.
Behead the music,
if not the conductor.
It will happen when everything has
expired in the threshing.
Wring me pure, make me delicate,
chain me in the wrongness.
Embody this figurine pierce it with stem
break it gossamer as petals imperiled ad infinitum
sleek as a metaphor rising from rinsed perfume.
2 Chance Operation:
Say when she caresses / this mired setting:
it is of preparation.
Seize this mean when preparatory.
Turn you as inside-out cleared from veiling.
In a vitrine you wish to be freed from,
examined, never granted meaning;
Mundane the discovery.
A throb of fever gone from tepid bath
walking into space, abled.
Acute blunder is study, wash me with theory.
Sullen is the word for it, entitled to acute error.
Say when it ceases,
tranquilized. Never waking up, fastens to
3 Dreamwork:
Always still is the heart.
I envy the water midstream. Fingers partition
when infiltration is sure of. A conscious removal
merits the continual of lobotomies.
Augur this dim presence, make it raw again
infallibly, make it my body. Forge my skin out of
and listen to it. Feel the drone of this machine
making space less tolerable. This begins
an end, but of what pursuit is this here
always a vision Blinded by definition
away from here?
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Lets get over the stupid **** about God and the Devil
Satan is the serpent power
originating at the base of the spine, this is primal power corresponding to the id
With out Satan you would be dead
This power regulates primal autonomic excretory and ****** functions, ie. survival and supports the higher activities of the body mind and soul
corresponding to the ego and super ego, your God
The ego is and integrative mechanism that stands between Id and the super ego ie Devil or Id and God or the super ego
The id is the original primal survival mechanism and true will not to be ignored or denied
The light is born of the darkness and is born-less
The darkness is eternal and the light is everywhere within her
The super ego is discernment ...principal ....reason...ethics and ideation's of mythic heroes , not to be ignored or denied
In religion aspects of the higher self are personified as a Christ, Buddha, Krishna etc when God takes human form
and the Devil is personified as Satan, Asuras Beelzebub Demons or various miscreants in human form
If Christians adhered strictly to total purity they would have to insist on castrations and analectomies to purge their so called evil elements and die because surviving with out the lower is undoable
conversely the Satanists would require lobotomies or being guillotined because living without essential principals is indoable
God and the Devil are not mutually exclusive except when they're viewed through the maw of religion...God and the Devil are different sides of the very same coin
In the royal yoga of the the east when the serpent power ascends up the spinal column the id, ego and super ego are instantaneously integrated and transcended into an all together different order and the fractured nature of self is over come by unity
This unity transcends all myth and concepts of god ie. religion ethics morality
It is a totally transcendent order..
In western terms as a human you stand between the the higher and the lower
Spiritual evolution is not about taking sides its about the integration towards a whole self
You are potentially the magician who mobilizes the lower to serve the higher
This may be an over simplification but
you use your demons to create a base ...they are work slaves to get money so you can go to your temple, your home...the higher self in effect and reflect on the beauty of life
.helllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
CAN WE **** NOW :)
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
our words outlast the weight of ourselves,
to breast the wave and still themselves there,
even the Spring with its careful hands
dole out lobotomies in cherry trees; their fall
is not our fault, the behest of their nature.
this is the way the light sees itself disparaged,
from which darkness still seethes and grows
there is nothing we ought to do but look up
as unsuspecting as the world in the rain
tricked by the passing of words not our own
but someone else’s translation – we cannot be helped.
we shall pare the flesh from the bone
we shall strip the fruit of its fresh glaze
we shall gaze upon a tulip and behead its fragrance
we shall raise our clenched hands and eat beasts
with our bare hands,
and as an unquiet stone turns in its station,
pours out of its mouth, a tilted shadow,
we stride past worlds, our mouths tender with words
as though we have not yet feasted our fill.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
*letting go of mind and body
out of this dichotomy a world of flowers blooming
forever is in the choosing
to see the water’s beauty from inside our hidden towers
thousands of broken flowers
threatening to reveal the truth that we are returning
to the burning days spent singing in old cathedrals
streaking naked in the woods
dreaming upright streams of cottonwood
treetop dancers stand upon the crashing boughs
deepen their stance and make flashing elbows
your feathers are wet as yesterday’s snow is melting
how many years till the pelting of the sun with arrows and stones
commences to cover up our coats
of fur, tooth, breath and bone with armor
your faith is cheap so you repeat the weakness of the elderberry
your syrup stealthily dripping, stripping, ripping
a wealthy dreamer hungry for the sun-dried lobotomies of love
the watershed depends on nothing yet it remains
ugly and unsteady and ready to drop you without warning
love is deeper than still water
it is all about alabaster and descending melodies
the viola serves his daughter’s laughter
in symphony’s ancient slumber
projecting this imperfect world as a boy masters his box of toys
stepping out into the abyss like gargoyles on the corners of rooftops
i stop and wonder how we plundered so much of the universe
despite the treasures that were never uncovered
did we misplace our souls in the bargain
in stolen mansions deep within the forest
stallions cast shadows on straw covered blankets
asleep in thyme’s meditation
i deliver the delicate feathers of the mother
to swarms of stormy eyed children drifting in meadows
forests of wildflowers matching our emotional temperament
again we separate the wheat and the chaff
the oat and the staff of ancient Syria
stood tall and bowed before
all the youthful interpreters
foregoing is ambitions cursed gesture*
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
Brick-wall lobotomies
Self inflicted
Hard Head full of rocks
Cracked into sand mixed into mortar
And The school of hard knocks
Is just you breaking yourself
Rock tumbler thoughts
Chisel questions on diamonds
But any answer is too hard for anyone to write it
Sinking sand
And rock steady
But the stone is too heavy
And it keeps rolling back down
The hill to wear it started
If you're Sisyphus it's your Hades' Tartarus
But since you're Atlas it's the whole world to you
Stalactite tears
They've been falling for a while
Tear stream Grand Canyons eroded into your cliff-stone-face
A mask of jade
Said you were okay
But now all you can do is bring
The rock-wall to your face
But if you climbed it
You'd only see the other side of the mountain
But it's better than stoning yourself
Unless you'd rather dig yourself a hole and stay well-grounded
Be mindful of the Earth benders
Cause lead mined and pistol fired
Makes a mind worse for the better
Brain benders
With bullet senders
Brain blender
bullet benders
Stick to bricks
Hay-and-straw-made bricks
You can build yourself up
From dirt and twigs
But when they try to blow it away,
You are the brick wall
That they are leaning (concussed) against
Knocked out
Stone cold
Rock on
Roll steady
Dig deep and let the moss grow
When you start to feel heavy
I see you in the block of marble
David
**** your Goliath
With a sling and riverbed stone
But don't let Medusa freeze you up
Or there will be hell, fire, and brimstone to pay
And if you win
There is a statue waiting for you
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC