Fade Away
Skin glistening, I am drenched by the rain, ears attuned to the sounds of the elders, of droplets popping against slicing winds which whistle through these cedar trees. While water splatters across the bark and burbles down the canopy, saplings sow green across this vista, and mulch molders along the path. My hands, grasping at moss which clings to the underbelly of the Jōmon Sugi, caress the roots which suckle the rainfall. The storm swells with tears of solace and ancients are nursed in its lament, engulfed in the deluge of morning.
Brainbabble
Thalamus is working overtime, firing artillery shells to the outskirts. For these dreams are a battlefield, one which sires unbridled need: to correlate each thought in turn and unleash them in a fusillade.
Meanwhile, Amygdala, eel-tongued, whispers: FLESHY MECHA OF OUR MIND LET CACOPHONY CONSUME DREAM AWAY WHILST WE BLATHER O LITTLE GOBLIN MAN SO GANGLY
Basal Ganglia stretches its marionette threads Slackening its taut roots, pinkish and hypnotic Sprawling out the tapestry that smothers muscle Petrifying flesh which yearns to shudder and be free
Pituitary’s horned onus and obsessive taboos, Mantle of spittle, succubal foetid schisms, Rushing, tightening, constraining, inflamed, Tugpullunfetter loose, release, release…
MIND-BILE BRAIN-ROT AD NAUSEAM MAGGOT-SPINE
Lamina terminalis requests an estuary of cola, sticky sweet, bubbly brine, molasses tides to part the seas of savory cerebrospinal soup, saccharine exhalations eructations effervescent.
Superego asks: What shall we self-loathe tonight? Perhaps one’s ever-unbecoming desires, OR the arrogance of one’s presumed wit!
Id, ever-theatric, retorts: Nay, back! Avast, sleep’s paralytic fiend! Cringe, I say! Exorcize such foulness! Ye Abhothian cyst of self-deprecation. Burn it from the roots, detested and impure.
The calossum, uncleaved, readies its net for a clash For though it is able to bridge the gap, this retiarius would rather skirmish, Allowing each brazen side, blades ready, to board and brush up against the other Before collapsing the divide when these REM wars begin to reach a treatise
For not all denizens seek such ugly dispute:
Un-Brocan are these wars, and all the worse for it. Our cacophonous congregation must reach a courteous resolution. There is beauty in the rallied swarm of morphemes and manic thought.
Un autre tel, Wernicke野 connaît The grass is always greener on the other side: “草”はもっと青く相手の国で が、この翻訳はmeくrそde, si vous pardonnez mon français. The brain is at its best when its parts wish to mingle, for no artistry may show itself where language has ruptured, and no compromise may sprout while the soil lacks decorum.
Cooper Walden Sturm 