From the beginning, I came with my fists held tight
When I exited my mother's womb, I screamed and readied myself for a fierce fight
A fight I didn't understand at the time...
Way before the development of my prefrontal cortex and mind
But something peculiar sat in my spirit...
Coyly poking and nudging me to be intuit
And into it I was
But over time I started to lose my buzz
As I grew, no longer was I mirthfully floatin' and stingin'
Still, I was in the ring, and the fight they kept bringin'...
Fighting for a seat at the table___
After I was released from Dad's steel hands and Mama's nurturing ladle
Fighting for my voice to be heard in a world with stuffed ears
Fighting, just fighting to abolish my creeping fears
Fighting for my sweet, sweet dreams...
With my clenched hands, I still hold them, but so far away they seem
Fighting, fighting to experience peace and joy in the golden light
But soon--oh, too soon-- the fists become less tight
It’s not the inconvenience
the drab of the monthly drape
nor the showtime red but
the play within the play
the horror flick
the creature feature
The Swamp Bit**
The damaged frontal cortex
with the inflammation hits
Starring: The Amygdala!
“hormones laced with fists”
It’s been a psychological thriller
and it’s at its peak of suspense
I am embracing the climax
celebrating
The End
Tech Rex big hitters
Respect what glitters
Our new babysitters
Not Grandma knitters
X cortex hex twitters
Hate mission transmitters
Gaza or Persian fritters
Emission spate emitters
Vile bile style spitters
Culture war splitters
Astringent mocktail bitters
Seedier leader flitters
Don't get the jitters
Don't be permitters
The media embitters
Don't become quitters
Need pinch hitters
This lot are critters
What's in cats' litters
All just bullshi**ers
No one can see it, but I’m poisoned.
Every morning, I take my meds,
and as the pills travel down my throat,
I wonder if this is the only antidote.
When I sit alone in my bed,
pondering my own crippling thoughts,
the poison makes me ill.
Will I ever get this out of my system? I ask.
It lingers through my body—
from my head, deep in my brain,
to my stomach, where I get nauseous
at the thought of my own mental toxins.
Although I didn’t consume something deadly to make me sick,
the poison in my prefrontal cortex
might just be the death of me.
When I walk into a room, no one sees
that every step I take is intense pain.
For now, I’ll go to sleep with this poison
eating at my life
and hope that it doesn’t kill me.
I’m poisoned mentally,
but not physically.
older man should eat
toasted peanut with cortex
and some little salt
Jazz improvisation is a favorite vehicle for cognitive psychologists and neuroscientists, while smokin' weed in the lab/ the mind scrambles into a rhythm, thoughts improvising on beat/ fingers rippple over the white and black keys/Stimulated thinking, they call it, a mental jam session where ideas riff in and out of the mind and evolve, where the cortex keeps time with the bass line of curiosity and wonder/You've got to learn your instrument, then you practice, practice, practice man/hit the band stand and cook your ass off/ Charlie Parker high even high in the air/ would practice in the doorway, the gateway, on a bridge like Sonny Rollins did/ the ignition for invention, motivation and just havin' a good time in playin' your horn/Flow, baby flow, movin' on out, cracklin' them jazz notes across the room/ the zone, where pressure bleeds away and enless possibility streams in like sunlight through a wide open window, yeah, improvise jazz flow is not a song you finish, but a doorway you walk through again and again, maybe bumpin' your head on the way out but always in the flow of this thing we call jazz/
My cerebral cortex -
indeed, you are the vortex,
processing my senses,
the place where joy condenses.
It's to you I owe
every pretty sky,
each note that makes me sigh,
and grandma's apple pie.
Please don't ever go.
Can you feel the real deal hoodoo or juju hex
One sex tech conquest & manifest wrecks perplex
Flex your cerebral cortex protest against the new Rex
Hullabaloo of voodoo we must contest & vex
Vain inane randy Deejays handy on dandy sandy decks
A bane.. vloggers..joggers & bloggers texts & trend treks
Reign of hooray Henry’s forays with oversized unwise specs
Disdain from plain Jane “ex” glowering while devouring Tex Mex
Train..campaign for brawn not brain.. divulging bulging necks & pecs
The lot have got an absurd follow the word of the herd complex
Flecks of lies flutter & splutter in the utter nutter echo chamber gutter that is “X”
Never ending..mind bending curmudgeon bludgeon chorus of Tyrannosaurus Techs!
There is a monster in my bed and I let him in. I supplied the pillow to rest. His quiet wickedness I don't address. As he fondles my body while I lay still undressed. I don’t reciprocate his love or affection and he won’t allow me to stop it or reject it. That must be his thrill. Just begging for me to pet it. Like a dog. I like dogs. They don’t force me to love them. They just are. He has a darkness beneath the face, beyond the freckles and scars. He stays inside until he thinks you bought the bit that he is a chivalrous guy, but he has secrets to hide. As sweet and willing as he seems he is holding two sharp blades to your carotid artery. In plain sight but you choose not to see. You let the darkness in because a part of you believes you too are a dark fruit fallen from the forbidden tree. Another lying message you allowed your brain to receive. You are more than an object of affection, you are deserving. Sometimes we have to burn it all down to start anew. A cleansing of the medial prefrontal cortex erasing desires previously initiated for a few as I currently have a monster in my bed and I am the one who invited him in.
Breathless,
words like cordyceps adhere to my throat,
Choking me as the unspoken wrap around, seizing vocal cords.
Sticking fingers down, I claw to clear closing airways,
Yet the more I struggle, the more entwined they become.
Disconsolate spores have taken root within heaving lungs,
Spreading to each chamber of the heart, systematically.
Transported through streams of hemoglobin,
Swiftly infecting Broca's area before moving to the primary motor cortex—
As all speech ceases to be.
Waves in my brain
to your cliche songs they entrain
Background music in the store
It takes me over to my core
Others keep looking for merchandise
Or converse with each other to break the ice
But I sing along with nothing to prove
Just taken over by a nonlinear groove.
(chorus)
Waves in my brain like a tidal refrain,
When you can't think, the vacuum's the pain
I sing other people's words, can't think alone
cobwebs grow on a stalling stone
My cortex resonates to the rhythmic beat
I start dancing in the aisles, pounding my feet
It's like I'm under a spell by a witch
As my brainstem resonates to a higher pitch
The people with the white coats come for me
My shrink is puzzled, he just can't see
When your brain is one big empty hall
Music rules it, better than nothing at all.
They were right, I'm just an empty suit
So don't play that piano, guitar or flute
Thinking is hard, But I'm going to be brave
I'll find a way to make my own wave.
Drained of opaque innocence
Perfected by your toxicity,
I was laid bare beneath the narcissistic sun,
Searing deep within dehydrated pupils,
Stripping my soul of all humanity,
until your sinister tongue was all I could hear.
Your empty promises clothed these bones;
running was no longer an option,
as hiding became nearly impossible within your shadows.
Voices, eating through my cerebral cortex,
tainted even the demons that resided within my mind.
Minuscule reminders of my life before became particles of dust,
floating through suffocating air,
choking the little oxygen you let me breathe,
until the poison became too much to take.
Falling to my knees, vomiting your vile lies,
my life flashed like motion pictures before my eyes.
A choice was given:
either purge—rip the cursed, stinging nettle from my veins,
or die under your cruelty.
I will not rot for an insignificant monster;
a cleansing is long overdue.
What’s on the old mind tonight
the good old frontal cortex
the ole gray matter
~ not that it does…
My mother was catatonic, symphonic chronic is what I smoke.
Livinin it bougie, choosin floosies no uzis and then I choke.
You can be me, insane cerebral cortex is
just what I feel.
Living pervy swerving Lexus and hexes to get the deal!
I'm the homosexual, heterosexual, suicidal bloke.
I was adopted by white family and to them I'm just a joke.
They are white supremacist hollow and they drink a racist coke.
And they bought themselves a black kid, broke me down and built a moat.
I'm the illest of the illest, you the illest with a pill.
Donate plasma with no athesma, drain so much I start to spill!
Got the game on lock with fakers who found out that words can kill.
Better bump this on speakers like I invented free will!
Spendin money by the twenties gettin hundies by the bill..
And I'll never stand for the flag so you coonies can in chill!
If my words had a flavor I'm sure I'd be spicy dill.
Bringing back the old school freshness like my name is Uncle Phil!
prefrontal cortex
"thinking brain" - the unconscious
can become conscious
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