Neuronal Poems | Examples

one step at a time

synapses continued their neuronal junction
long after the seed’s path had been planted

the miracle proceeded in mind and mindfulness
as the journey became her labour of love

prismatic eyes shone once again in a mirror
polychromatic and full of compassion and trust

Seijaku

A coffee over the buzzing watches
Did once urge me feelings of grace.

Then they ticked and tocked away;
And was dumped down with all the 
Documents and filed signatures in
Unnoticable pile.

Only the sundials non-stop on a frozen
Lake, and I internally ache. 
Maybe twas a neuronal longing 
For un single pause - 

Then watch the unmoving objects on the ice, 
And with scrutiny, the glint of one smiling
Droplet…and the next… until a smooth and
Tranquil blanket encompasses you,

Then resume.

Surfing Up to November

Deep November,
a shallow time, nonetheless.
The snow is high packed with a cryogenic
amnesia.
Not yet dawn,
a sunken bed
muffles rising thoughts.
An eyelash of cognizance
flits across
thawing synapses.
Then the elastic nature
of sleep and wakefulness
snap alive!
November is howling still,
like a stray dog it scratches at my window -
wanting in.
For a while intelligence is a thorn in my paw.
Outside of the brain, November
is the same,
the darkness is still deep,
and friable as charred bone,
yet by now I am a candle flaring,
a flicker and gleam
within a neuronal time-machine,
and mind-surfing
on an ever-cresting awareness.

Nor Flowing Script

My mind is too pragmatic;
it cannot work the magic
of allusion, illusion, nor flowing script. 

When was my heart last ripped
open in love-lost-anguish or slipped 
into unexpected passion?

I am unable to refashion 
the impulsive neuronal transmissions
to create a cage of desire

or the heights to which you aspire.

Dance Steps

If you’re not clouded by flesh
you’ll feel it - your verge shifts,
A bright brim begins to look at the stars
as if they were your own eyes
looking back at you.

You are over the tip of a reach; a brink,
where you seed worlds
with the artwork of a fertile mind.

Keep rekindling neuronal flares upon that fringe,
elderly men and women have been known,
to dance a step or two, right there
at the shimmering edge
of life and death.

stars

Take a knife to the strings that attach me
Pull out the bridge pins, strum me with drachmae
Maybe then I'd have some worth for you to allocate
Maybe your role in the end was the devil's advocate
A Satanist, not the blatantest
Flown under my radar, the blurb of my memoir

Where will you be when I windup a wreck
Wasting away, misstepping, forgetting, hanging from the cromlech
Wailing of sirens and the echo of 5150
Following the path painted by the whiskey
Always have been a pretty little liar
Introduction to an overanalyzer

Since when did you become so starry-eyed?
Mix my chemical bonds, manipulate me with aldehyde
The stars in your eyes, perhaps sourced from the countryside?
Deactivate my neuronal tracts, just a drop of cyanide
I never thought I'd be one to commit fratricide
Only something you could manage to make glorified

Mind Attack

I was assaulted last night,
sleepless gray hands
attached to an insane mind
kept me on the edge
of delirium.
Mind attacks are never real
but when the dark hours
cling to you like spiders
you follow those crazy thoughts
believing it is you who thinks them
but it is the spiders, the
neuronal web-weaving spiders
that talk and talk and talk
as they walk up and down
your cringing spine.

An Encounter of the Fourth Kind

Last night a great heaviness
fell through the roof
dropping like a boat anchor into my dreaming mind.

It was sentient,
a being as hard as steel and massively stupid.
I felt its dumb confusion, its awkward alarm,
I winced as it lumbered around my head-space
crashing into my own startled thoughts
though I realized on some level of awareness
that I was still living in a bad dream.

The brutishly bulky being wanted answers,
I wanted answers, the dream had no answers.
Eventually that solid hulking creature gave up
turning my inner-state over and smashing
my neuronal workings over its big stony head.

Oblivion took us both.

When daylight unveiled the long night
I looked about me
the bedroom was not ransacked
but my brain was blinking on ‘check engine’ light,
and something was still asleep
on the backseat of my mind.

Tonight I will take a strong drink and 2 Ambien
incase its guttural snoring, or its chaotic dreams
wakes me up again.

Thus Spoke Tesla

"My brain is only a receiver, in the universe
there is a core from which we obtain knowledge,
strength and inspiration."

The human brain as a mass of neuronal sensitivity,
has no power to enlarge its awareness by itself alone,
yet once a person comes to understand
that it must let go of being a creator, then it becomes
a sounding board, a receiver of unthinkable realities.
Mentation is the after-thought of receiving, it is often
an imperfect picturing of that which was received,
but know that for one holy instant, the brain like a flower,
bloomed wide enough to capture a fragment of Mind.

"If you want to find the secrets of the universe,
think in terms of energy, frequency and vibration."

And the greatest of this trinity (this one in three),
is vibration. For energy can be directionless,
while frequency can modulate, but vibration
resonates and that resonation is the voice of the Universe,
and it will speak within in you if your hear
at the speed of light.

Wrong Data

Most of the dead leave you forever,
proving conclusively that there are no ghosts.
Some enter the neuronal network
of your personal sense of being,
proving beyond doubt that you are the ghost.

Nothing is beyond the scientific mind except the truth,
but if you are awake to irrefutable facts
then you are sleeping through corrupted data.

It's not that the cosmic computer is
messing with you,
you just don't understand the program,
how it was created so you would not see
all of yourSelf -
all at once.

The First Line Finds the Last

Ancient scribes scratch their quills
to a perfectly illiterate God;
so the words sometimes get ugly.

I plug-in my neuronal soul
try to say something not yet uttered,
not a scrambled re-hash,
from a dyslexic troubadour
or blind hurdy-gurdy man.

Let those ten hundred monkeys loose,
for in time they may find a meaning;
the trunks of wise elephants just may paint
the perfectly mathematical
score of a Bach fugue..

A virgin/whore dwells in the keyboard
her creamy petticoat is spotted
with blood and jism,
yet sometimes she will write sublime poetry
a thing both ugly and beautiful
for a wordless God.

After the Cyber Dating

Erotic prayers are typed like tattoos
on her virtual skin. She clutches at this man;

prints his likeness under her tongue. His words
are as close as a bedtime story told to her flesh.

An fleshy fruit grows ripe, tactile,
Wet desires hung from neuronal dendrites.

They meet at the verge of a vision,
still conversing to distant screens
yet now on a real-life set.

Motel doors slam. Guests clomp
and call through echoing corridors.
From each side of twin lamps,
they lay tongue-tied. Tangled sheets
their only eloquence.

Later, they lose each other
as bats will 
when caught in the glare of the sun.

Take It E-Sea

The night sea makes the stars ‘my private universe’
And yet, one feels the multitudes gazing the same way
Kneading thoughts of multiverses staring in reverse

Enchantment on daunting dimensions making headway
Inside the rarer paths of hardened real, the surreal
takes on the wild waves that once tore at mettle to fray

electronic virtuality’s so subpar
surpassed always by experiences neuronal
Everlastingly firing away, the near, now far

Atomic energy spin-drives all ~ elemental 

(9/12/2020: '93 Sea Ray 330 DA; Sac Marina)

Blood Ties

He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal, 
a tug on his shore.

Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?

He took a mind journey 
within the coiling tendrils 
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.

A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine 
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.

She is no longer a fantasy, no longer 
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.

Nobility

Nobility


Scouring for something to read
Someone else to be,
I am lost in this dark sparse room
With nothing to do.
Stuck in a neuronal loop
Of the neurotic mind.

I want to be noble.
Fight with a crowd of rebels 
For a righteous cause
Or die
Saving some small child.

Then rising from this clamor
To a state of bliss,
Die with the truth
Still safe on my lips.

John Thomas Tansey

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