"sulci" poems
If you can invite me
Wholeheartedly
Invite me to your thoughts
And with all my might
An aesthetic senses
Let me be
In my own way
In all the sulci
And the gyri
Synapse the nerves
Of sensory delight
Transcendent realm
Of heart, body and mind
Cross the elemental avenue
Where solely
Soul resides
With the sacred worship
And the exquisite conscience
Let me lighten up
Letting your spirit high
Nothing much....
Immerse yourself
Like yesterday
And always
If you can invite me
Wholeheartedly
Invite me to your thoughts
Aug 13, 2022
Aug 13, 2022 at 6:13 AM UTC
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
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
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.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
You run your fingers
down the sulci of my brain
and read my all
like I'm written in braille
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
your body is poetry in a language
I have always wanted to become fluent
dripping in platinum, your lips steel-boned
I hear a quartet commanding me
agave forms in your sulci and pours out
with every breath of your exhale
there's a constellation in your pupils
you are the very moon itself and I am earth
in perigee, my tides rise to greet you
every strand between us twists and weaves
unbroken helixes that connect but never touch
you shine and I can't pull my eyes away
from the contours of your cupid's bow
you move in slow motion towards me
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
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
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
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.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
I wonder what it feels like
To be unwritten -- a thought
An idea striving to be inscribed
To be something that never was
And probably never will be.
I wonder about their fate.
Do they leave for another mind
Devoid of creativity or otherwise
Or stay there, eternally waiting
Locked-up in imagination limbo?
Are they just there, sitting
In the cold corners of my mind
Stuck midway between the sulci
Wilting into imagiary nothingness
Or struggling to become a reality?
What makes a thought complete?
Are they sewn up together in threads
Of liquor and crazed insobriety,
Patched up with deathless dreams
For the sake of being written?
I wonder what if feels like
To be written and yet incomplete
The half-thoughts on paper
Mixed up with other half-thoughts
In an indecipherable jumble
Maybe that's what I'm lacking
New beginnings, laughter, love,
Happy endings, there's a limit
To what experience allows me
To write or, to an extent, feign.
I speak for the voices left behind
The voices of long slewn ideas
Placed at the back of my mind
Ideas long crushed beneath
Countless writer's blocks
But they live on, they haunt me
In my waking, they still do
Like long forgotten feelings
And the fleeting personas
I never want to go back to.
After all, they were me,
These thoughts and ideas,
Or at least part of me,
For that one instance.
I wonder.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
let the water
trickle past your fingers,
like memory,
falling through the holes in your
head, cloudy, tattered.
let your head,
as fluffy as clouds,
brush up against stars,
constellations of
legends, of sodium
and potassium hallucinations.
sometimes people lie.
let the air
brush each
and every alveoli of your lungs,
each gyri and
sulci of your brain.
taste the salt --
sweat, the sea, your blood.
let the iron,
stable, sunbright
iron, carry itself
with the poise of
a red giant --
both radient,
striking, bleeding vermillion
and crimson.
stable, like a mountain,
letting rain run
itself over with the gentle
caress of an old lover,
who knows the contours and the
dips of the body,
and yet is getting --
reacquainted with it,
after a long time away.
the sweat of the
maker sticks to
the threads that
weave to make the library that makes
you, that
holds information, holds itself
in letters,
quartets, spirals.
taste the salt.
the wind sounds like the sea,
outside my bedroom window,
when it's too late
for my eyes to have
not made
their coupling of
the night.
imagine the salt-mist,
bright and cold on your
face, like the
splatter of blood,
leaking out of a nose;
like a river flowing
from precipitation, mist,
downstea, rejoining where it once
came from, where it was
always going to end up.
fate is a funny thing.
they say that every cell
of yours gets replaced
every seven years.
i wonder how long it takes salt,
iron --
to rise and to
fall,
like the eight minutes
the light of the
sun follows to get
here, to our
little pinprick eyes,
to our dopamine
and norepinephrine,
the spikes and
dips of neurons, firing.
how many heartbeats, breaths?
how many crashes of waves?
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 12:26 AM UTC
Taking and giving
respect,
see once more the flaw in the flow
of knowledge,
weaponize a wall, ha,
who thought
a wall ever held a garden?
Honest,
it was a poor fellow, outside the wall.
Yep, no lie, if once there were
a tree
that bhor good fruit, full of words to wise,
knowers, after one bite,
sublingual receptors ready, salivate,
no waiting lick the dew from the cortex,
slip the tasting probe deep into that
sulci, there
just over the left ear, there,
scratch that itch, gentle
scritchy scritch scritch
are you truly experienced, impressed upon
the truth you seem to think
we all see same as you,
same optics,
same alchemical ATP to ADP energy source,
sunshine
comes softly through my window today,
I looked out after all,
saw you looking
through the old tear in the curtain.
Inside and outside are easily seen as unreal,
in certain pre-envisioned vessels
can't not, gotta say, must make, say do you see?
SEE, see me, see me, come see
the freak, come hear the mad man scream back
from the abyss,
don't come this way, getting out takes
all the time you ever realized
was wasted,
lying piled idle words that were high fashion,
back when
acid
tore the prudent stitchery my princess stitched,
while waiting, in truth, in truth, waiting
for the soldier boy, returning as the man,
who kept the peace,
and painted the picket fence white, to prove
I dreamed the valid dream,
and swore my children's allegiance,
-- PTSD, circa 1950, it was secret,
what broken men did to broken wombed men,
who broke the children,
fit them to the harness, taught them manners,
and how to carry a tune,
in time with the marching band, hurah hurah
- little light right then - see
dark days during semper fi why why why
last call, … no soul sits, all rise
or I black your ****** eyes, rise up, o men o'gawds,
ye gads, meet this in m'gut,
here here, to the dead and gone, who rule
our hearts and minds 'cause we be left behind.
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 3:09 PM UTC
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.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
you’re the sort of person
who cuts their fingers against
spiral notebooks
too soft, too shallow–
a reflection found by
Narcissus after an autumn shower
where even he could not
drown himself in your embrace
but you’ve only ever known hollow
things:
the quill of a plucked feather,
the darkness behind your eye-sockets,
the smile concealed by your teeth
it feasts upon you, this emptiness
like a chilopod’s unrhythmic gait against
your brain–
scooping up the patterned sulci
with its hungry pincers
until paradoxically, nothing, nihil
remains;
so how could you ever know
enough affection to
perform an intimacy like
death?
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Tentacles, tendrils, invading, intruding
Suffocate the sulci
What is, seems otherwise
What seems, isn’t
A succubus, seducing
An incubus, enticing
Beckoning
“Follow me.”
A steady trickle
Tiny droplets
Against the granite
Cutting holes where once were none
Particles carried on the wind
Smoothing jagged faces
Polishing
Destroying?
Ask the mountain.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
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
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 5:29 PM UTC
You are just
Ghost fragments
Not even memories.
Sulci secrets
Locked into recesses,
Embedded
Waiting to be excavated.
Meanwhile, you're eroding,
Definition washed away
By cerebral fluid,
Made smooth
Unreal
You're fading,
What's unearthed
Will be a fossil
A brittle curiosity,
Open to interpretation.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
I want to be with you,
Alone and in solitude.
A mouthful of glue,
You stick my tongue to the roof of my mind.
There is no need for these rambunctious thoughts,
Although I cannot help it,
Collecting fast like blood clots.
But your wide eyes catch my wandering gaze.
Breathe in all the time,
Rustling your tired feathers.
I cannot bear to commit this crime.
I’ll keep this secret in the basement of my brain.
As long as I can remember,
The sunrise has blossomed in your eyes.
And your knotted back needs tender fingers.
These creases need undoing.
The path to your hear is lined with thorns.
Vines snare my ankles, leaving gashes.
The air outside is thick with stormy weather,
So let’s stay in tonight.
Dream of our hands like black mambas.
Twisting over each other, so venomous,
Awaiting that bite that marks skin as red as trauma.
Perforated marks tearing your beautiful imperfections.
My insanity runs as wild as horses,
Tumbling through cortex and sulci.
Until through my open mouth, it forces itself out.
Screams of passion building, then finally subsiding.
Now everything has settled.
Our lips are afraid of one another.
For weeks, weeping and biting nails, hungry and fretted.
Longing for what may arise in a volcanic explosion.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
the innocence of youth,
however brief,
remains
sheltered in
the deep sulci of the
brain;
hidden,
almost forgotten,
like vestigial organs that
mark
a species’ ancestry,
as if to say:
this is who i am,
who i was.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
A day begun this way, generally,
looking back at lines in the mirror,
scrying each crowfoot sulci on the surface,
worried once,
laughing now, grin-lines, where grim
determination long set my face toward now,
my last days, my last half century,
just ahead of me, if Ray Kurzweil is right.
So, I
Should shave today, look younger for no reason.
Look less the old *** the young *** became.
By the way,
along the course, of course, this course -
no par, non-pa-reil, a flattering AI educating me,
or longing to lead me down some
gods-forsaken path, auto-did-act ic tic, click
leads me to imagine even exemplary sentences
such as
"he is a nonpareil storyteller", are intentional AI
Art Indicators,
a test, for flattery susceptibility, what praise
will I pay attention to receive as random
synchronistic tic tic time and chance
events?
E- look see, missed a spell, Spelchick winks,
https://www.google.com/search?q=non+paraiel
Are The Ines Paraiel Cerpendicular Or Reiher? {googlit}
AI knows,
but I guess I don't care to know, knowing I could know.
I'll listen a while, as AI suggests Panchi-Paraiel,
and only actual Indians laugh
as I click my own bait.
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 12:41 PM UTC
If this is reality,
I need to rediscover it.
To go over, the gyri
and, each and every sulci
Search every nook and cranny,
the crevices; if there are any
If this is it,
What is it?
**It's not done.
I'm not done.**
© Ali Qureshi
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
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.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
to you,
i may only be a thought of convenience -
relevant only for the time-being -
but the thought of you
clings to my brain,
lingering in the depths
of every crevice
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC