"occipital" poems
'Healer' time take thy poor, black sheep,
and stop it from wondering
in the dangerous corners
of the mind,
because heaven and hell collided
inside a body and in unity they came
in the presence of all those
who conspired to it.
From the frontal to the occipital lobe,
dark thoughts obstruct
the brain’s watershed regions
and thanatos they bring.
The soul cannot take this coffin
anymore.
The stone is too heavy to carry;
sliding down and pushing up,
every night the pushing starts,
for the dawn, her courage to crack.
It may be like Hooke's law they say,
but bodies break down,
when people apply the extra force
and so do the souls,
long before.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 11:10 PM 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
Hordes of metaphorical oracles awaken me from sleep
Dreams of paralysis, lost inside the deep
Rabbit hole analysis meets a descent so steep
While these Prodding thoughts got me tripping over my own feet
Interpretations or revelations what does it mean?
How long can one last existing inside of this scene?
Wide eyes lids closed coincide with winter snow
shallow breath heavy toll watching bodies decompose
presence felt, identity unknown, an experience to shake the bones.
Straining to take quick control, interpretations from the occipital lobe
lying semi lucid, fear from the cold
vocalizing panicked silence binded in time with mind stuck in molds
To even have witnissed this instance means it's time to grow.
the fire's flowing im slowly blowing my CO2
What do I want, what do I need?
This mission eye must see through
Take this steady ascension into the next lesson
clearing the mirror for a perspective of truth.
The more that is reflected, the more I see you
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
Got me a dose of my own medicine and I can't stomach the taste.
I spit it out and let the virus run a muck throughout the place.
My mix-tapes are an act of meditation. A phonetic compilation. An auditory trepanation.
With a couple screws loose I'm beginning to know the drill,
And already the hole is on its way to being filled.
Though the void keeps my brain pulsing, still, as my self trepidation is yet to be fulfilled.
Winter is a stone-cold killer. I can feel its icy fingers groping the back of my skull.
Numbing the occipital lobe. Static. Gray. Snow. A visual forebode.
Neurotic overload.
Sparks flying and dying.
Light to dark.
Good to bad.
Duality deceased.
Appoint the next fad.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
A very firm intention
To tell it as it is
Has the audience attention
On its toes and all afizz,
Though channelled to the circumspect,
With a patterned thought awry
It chaotically cascades
Across the prism of the eye.
It chaotically discharges
In a scattergun array
Of verbal innuendoes
Through a thin, saliva spray,
And all the passion spent in telling,
All the effort of the tale,
Sends a barrage of confusion
To occipital portrayal.
Where the tiny bones of balance
All atremble with the sound
Have discharged interpretation
Through a penny to a pound.
There’s a lost extrapolation,
There’s a blank look on the face
Where the balance of exchange
Has frittered nimbly from this place.
A calmness in both parties
As a sad pretence prevails,
Where communication nexus
Is ignored to save the whales.
Marshalg
Incommunicado
30 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Wanted to get drunk today.
WANTED TO WRITE TEN POEMS.
None of this happened, but the postman brought letters.
I opened them.
Skin felt absent on the occipital lobe.
Where amber, silica, sconce, crackle, glass exploded.
Lifted pillow 'bove my head.
Gravity took its power. Hold, sand shard dust and vase piece,
in my bed.
Wanted to sit in the park.
WANTED TO MAKE TEN ******* POEMS.
Needed a six foot tall model by my side,
in the windy park in the sunlight.
Children needed to dance around.
Wanted to see them puke up happiness.
On swingsets/marygorounds.
Wanted to be their fathers.
WANTED TO BEAT UP THEIR FATHERS POEMS.
Wanted to the cops to catch me.
Slaughter pigs, drink their blood.
Wanted lost in wanting.
WANTED TO BE BETWEEN HER LONG SOOTHING POEMS.
Wanted to clutch pretty.
Needed something like love...
or like drunk.
Needed to buy a forty today.
NEEDED TO COUGH UP WORD THROAT.
80 will do. If you have the proof
This didn’t happen. Instead,
I
Sat
Inside
And
Choked
On
My
Own
Enunciated
Emaciated
Words.
The poems never come out right anyways.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Awake into the night
Paralysed before sleep took hold
Suffocated by my worries
As some stranger had foretold
Awake into the night
I dreamt of coffins and stars
Hopeful for a soft future
One that died out young
Awake into the night
I felt him lingering near
Tickling my occipital lobe
Reminding me for the first time, ever
I'm never really alone
Nov 7, 2023
Nov 7, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
Whilst licking the salt from the niche
betwixt thumb and index
my eyes tilt into
your mutually skewed gaze
Your tongue grazes
your fleshy recess in unison.
Escapade gleaned
From occipital across
somatic plane
Wanton brow flourish
signs antic invitation
Insistence consortia encodes
in labyrinthine circling hips
Rushing urgency surges in acknowledged wake
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
A challenge for
most people, looking
into the eyes of another
for ten whole minutes
but there is so much
I can see within your
colors, your soft
airy connection as if an
examination of my
soul deemed it a perfect
fit for your own
and our trial
run of five counts to
sixty was through
in a blink
Thunder hearts, rainstorm
breath, lightning smiles
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
shoulders squared
putter lined up against
the pink gum ball at my
miniature feet
i know my father is watching
and i know he will swing me around in his arms
regardless if i get a hole in one,
and say, 'i'm proud of you, kathy b'
that loop-de-loop was a real *****
i remember the car rides home
fleetwood mac on the freeway
every time i asked you where we were going
you'd tell me, "to the moon"
hold my hand,
and with you
we went celestial
and in a couple years,
i'll advance and swing clubs against the wind
i begged you to teach me, begging
"how do you get that ball to fly so high"
i'd crane my neck against the sky
even with me on your shoulders,
our love flew so high
and i was terrified of you dropping me
i never played to impress you
i played because it was a part of you
sweetly polished, leather golf shoes
you smelled like grass,
and sunday
and thick tulsa wind
so you and i played every weekend
in aunt melissa's backyard,
i stared at my compromise
when i was thrown off the backseat of the cart
my twisted tiny fingers
dangling
pit pattering against rubber
it smelled like gasoline
and i couldn't stop thinking about
your sweet leather, newly polished shoes
we didn't play golf anymore after that
i stared death in the face, and so do you
because we hold hands in a different ways
you're on my shoulders now
because your occipital is faulty
and you can barely see
i'm hoping one day,
you'll teach me how to hurl pink gum *****
through the wind, so effortlessly
i hope one day you'll teach me
to pick out the perfect christmas tree,
and i hope you tells me you're proud of me,
kathy b
a perfect chicken soup recipe
the cure for all broken memories
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Words dance across a blank page.
Words that create lines.
Lines that create stanzas
Attractive to the eye.
Seductive to he mind.
Alluring to the lips,
They pass so freely.
Taking their designated course.
Creeping through your pupils.
Traveling from the frontal,
Pulsating through the temporal,
Stopping at the occipital,
Dissolving slowly.
Until it becomes one with you.
The ink becomes apart of the grey matter.
It is one with you, you are on with it.
Jul 12, 2011
Jul 12, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
I tried making home of other men.
Front doors of their sternums
Two story foyers
of their torsos
and porcelain stairs of their ribs.
Tracked myself
in and out of their memories
looking for space for my baggage.
Had conversations with
my echos as I screamed
I LOVE YOU
into hollow atriums.
Made my bed on diaphragms and felt
each draft of
inhale
exhale pieces of me to...somewhere.
I tried making home of other men.
Hang memories on occipital lobes
Affix my name to Broca's areas
so the world knew
I found home in another man.
I am tired of making home in other men.
Foundations thought solid
grow legs and wander way out yonder
Take my memories and love
leaving me nothing but my empty.
I am tired of making home in other men.
Tending hedges
shining floors
and making welcome for those
deemed worthy of home - not me.
I am tired of making home in other men
so I will make home in myself.
Put my hands on every crack
lay smooth my rough edges
and plant beauty in my own yard.
I am tired of making homes for other men,
so I will make this home for me.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
Nothing more than wiper slap -
smear light on a ***** windshield,
starbusting streetlamps through
pitted glass sliding
greasy on the bridge:
Every billboard passed,
every sign every whine,
every slumped leaning
off ramp neighborhood,
a blurred jagged vision
of what it is, what it was,
what it might be,
gone.
Though some hazy refracted,
gray on gray beam,
from out there, back there,
through the pupil to the retina,
focused occipital,
turned again into a shape
that wasn't hers to begin with.
But there she is,
behind a salt-crust window,
half-eaten by the blinding slats,
a perfect, distorted slouch
in a booth of vinyl bygones
off exit eighty nine,
with a bucket of fries
on her hands,
while I spit by
on a wet highway
to who the hell knows where.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:50 AM UTC
|_¤\/€
The sun knows where my truth is,
Higher than any other thing,
Exactly beside itself.
My thirst for your love
And company so pure
Is just unquenchable
Not permanently though
Miss Universe you are
In my life & future
So soft are your thoughts
Sitting in my mind
Injected into my veins
On the occipital lobe
Not doubtful if it's love
I am so lucky yet so unlucky
Not having you near myself
Multilingual I am although
Yet to meet you in person
Lies I do never utter
I only have the truth for you
Fostering this bond now
Empire of our love is founded
I desire to be your angel
Still is my thirst unquenched
Joyful I am in love
Enticed by a dove
Never sad these days
In my beautiful life
Far from reality is our dream
Although surely reachable
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC
explode the greenness within the container of life
mortar and pestle. occipital lobe. throbbing. crasha banga booma the scent of garlic
infusing the innocent air
basil, burning. keep going keep going keep going
wear goggles to avoid the pain of the onions
cut chop slice creal
mortar. pestle. mortal & pestle.
slice
pulverize smash
o the pain
take the basil and mix it
take the nuts
mash em all up
then, mix it all together
diversity
melting ***
jellybeans? no
genoa
pesto pesticide pesto
pesto.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
I don't know how to start
just like I don't know how I feel.
But that's the paradox of the woman, right?
Will anyone ever understand my brain?
My neurons and brain stem and cerebellum,
left and right brain,
and all the lobes:
frontal, parietal, occipital, temporal.
Will anyone ever make sense of it all?
No.
No.
But you try.
You skirt across my hippocampus.
Try to pitch your tent there.
Try to make a life there.
Try to dig up and excavate the things that will make me yours.
You're coming close.
Because I believe in tests.
Yes I am one of them.
Yes I do it to you.
I thrive on tests.
I pull them out of my ear drums and fingernails
and from in between the splits of my teeth.
I pull out the ACT, the SAT
the LSAT, the MCAT,
the Bacceleureat.
Everything is a test.
Every answer
every question
every "please come get me"
and jack in a Styrofoam cup.
The way you walk the way you look at me when I breath is a plus or a minus or a smudge on a scantron sheet.
Three and a half hours later
you can breathe clean air again
and your mind can clear.
Holy smokes, yes, but there is is nothing holy about it.
We wont go ring shopping
we've already been house hunting
and we all know the only thing you want.
Wide open spaces and a bed in the center
and me.
Isn't that right?
Isn't
that
right?
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
I see a netted drape
Over my mouth
And a knotted one
Over my occipital
A breath of fresh air,
Still finds its way south;
To give no relief
As my ***** drawls.
I'm a southern girl,
So south you ain't south anymo',
The same as my health,
Downed like a Merritt Island Iced Tea.
(For those of you unknowing,
MI is were addicts go to retire,
and our teas are more green than the dragon)
For vainglory we go
Buzzed and slow
I did so well,
despite red in the bowl
over and over
I just saw roses
On my long nails,
under my eyelids,
in my nostrils,
Unnoticeably pale.
The pain makes me pass,
outer than cattle
In the Atlantic, you still won't find them.
If I count like a toddler,
why can't he?
He strangles my ears,
Slaps my eyes,
clenches my stomach,
hurts my hands, my arms, my spine, my legs, my face, my jaw,
And still they don't listen.
I can't blame them much.
Though I said many word,
The passion didn't seem right.
Wrong to the right people,
Screamed to the able,
Signed to the deaf.
No one has done anything horrible to me.
Nobody but me.
Sure, I have problems with my mind
Like most of you here
(otherwise we wouldn't be writers,
though I am of a differemt [boring] breed)
But that's not what's killing me.
My body is shutting down,
And I wish that was metaphorical.
Or that it would hurry up and finish.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
When I look at you
My Occipital Lobe makes
My pupils dilate
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
.*well, when i was 6 or 7, i used to play dolls with my neighbor's daughter... perhaps we can fiddle around with this observation, as much as genital-less Ken & Barbie allowed us, to play driving a car, or house; **** the Yorick cliche... 'ere comes the 'amlet synonym!*
i remember this one insult from a girl,
why do your people have
a flattened occipital /
parietal bone structure?
(but primarily the occipital)...
so that begot thinking about this
years later... the whole Darwinism story
of - out of Africa...
huh... so why is it that Asians
and Africans do not have a protruding
nasal bone artifact?
you know...
as noses go... Jews and their Roman
noses...
how come...
the Asiatic and African noses...
they're really flat at the bottom,
enlarged even...
like the phallus, and the ***
perfect for running, and sinking...
so how come you don't have enough
nasal bone,
which is probably why there's
the case for enlarged nostrils?
huh?
how's that?
what?! ping-pong!
yeah... Asians and Africans...
a bit... flat... up top when it comes
to the nose structure...
very little cartilage on the up end
of the nose... plenty down below...
so why is it... that i come from
an ethnicity where my parietal /
occipital bone structures are somehow
flattened, but whereas the Asians
(south eastern) and the Africans
have a less protruding nasal bone?
basically flat nose on top,
with a black girl's ass's worth around
the nostril?!
why is that?!
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
I'm just an average guy...
I've got normal problems and a normal life
I've also got a voice inside
silently speaking - sounds of my mind
I wonder, does it have a mind of its own?
Always flooding like a river formed by a hurricane,
if my head gets too cloudy,
there'll be a high chance of rain and scattered brainstorms
It might short-fuse my hippocampus
unable to remember how to see;
a blacked-out occipital lobe
I still don't see how the backs of our brains allow us to see
through the front our faces and out of our eyes,
where most of the water falls
despite the brain's overflowing, muddy river,
or the temporary lack of sight,
I still have a voice.
And with it, I will share all of the stories stored within this blackbox,
and only this light can find them and shine on them.
My voice, a wave riding my mind's ocean's surface
This voice, this wave, this sound,
a complicatedly, clear conscious,
called into focus...
[a sound of (my) mind]
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC