"parietal" poems
a gathering;
parietal.
upon the hill.
where truth beguiled,
and brightened by
the suns of gods;
crucified...
somehow
outshone by
the light of our skin.
where
the dagger rests,
now sleeping
in the flesh;
the blood of martyrs
was not enough
for the black sky
over Golgotha.
oh father,
forgive us
for we know not what
we do.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
my whole mouth tastes like metal,
copper pennies from before
The Great Zinc Switch
filling my warm wet mouth.
cigarette smoke hazing
my sinuses like a frat rush
and I'm desperately in need of an Advil.
let me place my coppery lips
on your bronzed skin,
Amman to Atlanta,
nails like knives and
The Book of Biology
teasing hormonal touches and hydration.
iron oxide keeps flaking off my
skin, eczema and psoriasis in rust, and
the guitars in my ears are ******* furious.
and still:
sweat and *** in the sheets, your love
lingering on my palate like a
too sour wine; you fermented and curdled
in my mouth, and
to taste you now
is agony.
time is dilating around me in ripples;
I cough until the gas in my stomach releases itself; crystal abrasive.
it's all drugs and
tinder matches these days,
****** kids...
total sunbeam, in my opinion
there's still enough for
a couple more
hits, it's still rolling,
words cloud around my head like
so much weedsmoke, Storm clouds
on the horizon of my parietal lobe
and I feel fine.
I am fine.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
she smiled at me
through lab goggles and
a light, latex-gloved touch;
I blushed, looking down at my feet;
I caught sight of
the unseemly lump of
flesh on the table between us.
strange, that this dissection was so
[Russian Nesting Dolls]
meta; two brains with bodies
dissecting one without.
technicolor dreams drenched in
formaldehyde leaching out
upon the stainless steel table
parietal lobe corpus callosum Brocke's
area god I think I love
this girl I
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Through a vision in my dream, I see her there standing
a smile, unpainted, authentic and real, hopeful
opening the door, I feel a smile emerge, and the butterflies
oh they kick within me, like a life is growing there
a baby in sight, with no bump or pulse, just a gathering
of fluttering wings, that should I rip my chest open
out they would fly, a mélange of colours and shapes
purple swallowtails, adonis blues, lacewings, painted ladies
and finally, my favourite, the Menelaus Blue Morpho
escorted by the Duke of Burgundy, my springtime hero
each flutter, each movement, a collection from the continents
my self, my soul, my body has travelled, wanderlust
keepsakes of beauty and bliss, bordering on extinction safe within me
in a heartbeat they cover my whole self, they move around my body
my legs tremble, barely able to hold, this grown woman upright
a gulp, a gasp, a stare in wonder,
speechless, tongue tied, dazed, dumb, silent
my head empties, no thought passes, the parietal lobe vanishes
adrenaline is racing through my body faster than the light hitting my eyes
moments later I find vocal sound waves breezing past my ears
they are in slow motion, her voice mumbled, incoherent
she touches me and I jump in fright,
my eyes adjust, my heartbeat slows down, my legs steady
"Rachel!"
"Rachel!"
I wake up alone.
© Sia Jane
---
*"In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks,
"Is he sleeping— Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"*
Eugene Field
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
Middle of nowhere, I am still standing
Layers of faded mountains, across the withering cloud-gazing
Tell myself I was wrong, the light sky almost gone
Blocks of buildings, relinquish all the shades
North, South, East, West; tell them it was haul fate.
If creeks sound as scary, it would rings no more fury
Let the memories knock on your magnetic parietal door
Speak of colors of vividness, occasional emptiness
Cherry-blossoms feeling gone, yellow Autumn looks as fine.
Every light, turn on the fight
People jump over the stepping river by the mountainside
Greet, kindness will never ceased.
26th September 2016 - Kyoto, Japan
Amiera Sh.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC
my parietal lobe is home to a phoenix
and each time i awaken in thought,
he burns brighter than type II supernovae,
littering vitalizing ash throughout
the entirety of my internal,
over incongruous cobblestones
and grooved floorboards
bearing all the signatures
and singed residue of rebirth.
-
the ashes multiply and collect
filling me gaunt with each muse lost,
and fifty times the sun is just enough
for him to wither into a black hole,
rendering my mind little more
than an event horizon,
and my life little more
than an expression
denoting eventuality.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
His mother was suicidal
His father was patricidal
His siblings all fratricidal
They fractured his parietal.
His acumen was impractical
While his mien was didactical
His morals were retractible
And his religion was heretical.
He longed to be a celebrity
And wished for its celerity
To skip the serendipity
And fork over his luminosity.
But it seems that synchronicity
Paired up with idiosyncrasy
In a natural form of complicity
And waylaid him with complicity.
He moaned that he was qualified
And not the least bit mollified
To be so soundly criticized
That they could not recognize
By those who were so glassy eyed
A plenipotentiary, very wise
Who appears before their very eyes
Who they would gladly plagiarize
Even while they ostracize.
He can’t achieve equanimity
When so many hold their enmity
And treat him so outrageously
In ignoring his magnanimity.
After all, is there anyone living
Who is so astoundingly forgiving
Than he by the simple act of giving
And letting them go on living?
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
Blistered bronze popped howling
Dragging egg shell through
The china of the parietal lobe
There will always be somewhere
To run to
As for now?
I smash my face in grey rain
Teeth broken by inhale
Softseagreenbreeze exhale
IsmileismileI
Slug knees bloodied inching
Toward eternity finish tape
I smile at that too.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 11:45 AM 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
One day in September,
my mind felt trapped.
Like I was running down a darkened hall…
further,
and further,
and further.
But it was all just:
Black.
I wanted to tell someone,
my mind needed help.
But as I opened my mouth to speak, the words ran…
to the back of my throat,
down to the trachea,
where they could sit and hide.
Because it was all just:
Black.
These so called “thoughts”,
started replicating in my mind.
I could feel them crawling around the parietal…
eating away at any sense of control,
eating until my mind lost,
eating away all sense of soul.
Until my mind’s thoughts were simply:
Black.
One day a few years later,
I picked up a pen.
The black ink dripped upon the page…
with each drip of the pen,
came pouring each manifested thought.
No longer able to hide in the darkness of my mind,
but rather took form in the darkness of the ink,
each letter strung together as though a crown of black roses
was placed upon my head.
Rather than hiding in my mind,
the thoughts were exposed for him to understand.
The more I saw him, the more each petal withered.
Until one day in September, I stood upon nothing
but fallen petals that were all just
Black.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
Now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:24 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
why are poets the first to shy away from politics - when they intended to speak first and foremost? what a fascinating paradox, to be eager to speak first, but last when engaging in politics; hence the attack by philosophy, now that's duly understood, i.e. why philosophy attacked poetry, reason being that poetry attacked politics - it actually sabotaged thinking, by recording unsaid things.
i always get bored of women who don't
have a stomach for the macabre humour,
the sentiments of pre-feminism
and all round banter of not having
a father pick her wedding spaghetti tango
partner... you know, that pot-luck
daddy-day-care gimmick of Freud
concerning the shame males are fed
about ************ and women are fed
the line: take out the guillotine and give
us all alpha male's **** as ****** it might not
fit in our purring mouths...
but nonetheless keep them "wise"
with the crucifix x, y, z - well the z is the
history hiding in shadow behind the x & y
of the crucifix... *oh mary, mary,
(teenage christ), mary, to be so young is
oh so scary...*
yeah honey, mary hears you, along with
all the barbecued heretics... she hears you all right...
and the slime of smiles of ogle ogres of feminism...
the televised procession at easter
ensured the chicken & egg debate levied
the restoration of libraries...
indeed once the reformation against the
Vatican... but these days it's about the Restoration
with the Vatican rather than against it!
we write history when we're involved
into whatever delusional account be readied
as worthy and explanatory;
but nonetheless a footprint, a history -
because you wouldn't call the cave markings
of parietal art in france or spain as a sign of
delusion... ******* leftists, Stalinists...
KEEPERS OF THE VOCABULARY!
at least the far right would have offered me euthanasia;
and guess what... i'd nod a yes rather than wave a no.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
Of where I found it?
Oh that is the tricky part.
It is not in my soft yellow skin,
or my angelic avalanche blues.
Nor the way I reveal their tricks -
or my perception of them.
It is not in my frontal or parietal lobe,
not my hippocampus either!
Perhaps my eagerness knows of it,
and my care too!
Between the skin on my nails,
or in your mouth - or hers,
we haven’t spoken.
They tell me it does not ship,
that they’ll return to sender.
That I’ve got thousands of synapses,
and recovery files to date.
They say you will finally find it
when you learn to stop looking.
Or when you find yourself
in a better place.
So I guess, too bad I never had
anything nice to say?
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
My skin has been prisoned in artificial light
only self-created barriers holding me back.
I am able to stare at my rusted, lined, uniform.
Clothing me from my broad shoulders, to my suffering ankles.
I'm okay.
Those two words act as a life pursuit.
Those two words are repeated in every lobe of my brain
frontal, parietal, occipital, and temporal.
It's the poem they think I am breathing,
not the poem that defines me.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
Parietal, frontal,
Occipital, temporal,
I lobe your cortex cerebral
I'm the type of postcentral gyrus
That would love to be your primary somatosensory cortex
A cortical homunculus
Neurologicaly mapping the anatomical divisions of your body
I want to stimulate your sensory and motor
Then take over your proprioception
With love and affection
I felt an ****** in your basal ganglia
Amygdala! I couldn't believe it!
All I had to do was a lil trepanation to achieve it
I love your brain
Now I'm going to eat it
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 5:19 AM UTC