The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.

The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.

The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.

From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,

I am sorry.

To me,
you have always been a reflex
as natural as
vomiting, coughing, and sneezing
(albeit more pleasant—
sometimes).
Somewhere in my medulla oblongata,
something
is telling me to love you
but I suppose that something
might be tainted by a ghastly neurological disorder
because this
just isn’t working out.

Most of our cells
replace themselves
when they die and maybe
we should do the same.
Cut your hair short
and dye
it
whenever you feel sad.
Peel away the foil strips
and every layer of pigment;
imagine heaviness leaving your body,
become lighter
like each newly bleached strand.
Run your fingers through it
in the shower
however many times it takes. Know
that the chestnut locks
he balled in his fists with a sickly smile
are no longer yours.
They are sitting idly in the trash bin.
They are whirring down the drain.
You are standing idly in the shower.
You are staring down the drain.
You have surreptitiously
(and repeatedly, nearly religiously)
scrubbed your body clean of each
and every
remaining cell
that didn't die of natural causes
and then renew itself
in a way
you couldn't yet.
This skin is yours
and yours alone now.
This skin is wet.
This skin is bare.
This skin is yours.
Bang your head against the bathroom wall.
Feel the lights flicker away.
Encourage the neurons to flicker away.
Brain cells are the only cells
that last a lifetime without
replacing themselves.

Every time we kissed
You drew lightning across my lips
Thunder claps of a connection
Never received any protection
Couldn't perfect the rain as it fell
As you gave me those nights of hell
You were a cold summer rain
That left me without shelter
Alone.

An angel
wrapped in gauze.
Lying still
on coarse,
unmoved sheets.

Soft,
tender skin
pulled tight
over blood
and bone
by taut stitches
pierced through
the wreckage.
My angel.

Surrounded
by colour,
bright flowers
that fill the room
with a sweet odour
as they die.
I tell myself
that I can't
smell her too.

The sun
streaming in
through the window
is too hot,
but she shivers.
Now and then.
Her eyes,
so bright
when she looks
at me.

I touch her hair,
and whisper
in her ear.

An angel
wrapped in gauze
prays to a god
she's never seen.

I hold her hand,
long after she's let go.

Here, In the brightening forest,
only the fleeting stars can see me

The newborn air I breathe
bathes me in safety and I

Bloom, forget, and
ebb into meditation.

oh look
a deer;

maybe if i'm quiet

There is a fine line between love and hate,
Because both are very powerful feelings.
There is fine line between making perfume
and making poison,
One chemical ingredient, dosage, etc.
Changes the whole solution
And if I'm right,
Poison can never go back to being perfume,
and roses cannot turn red again
and the only thing I'm sure of
is that I can't go back to being young,
And they dare say that your young years are the best,
I'm not.
I'm the poison of my generation,
The perfume gone wrong,
I'm as toxic to myself as I am to others,
May I remind each one of you
of the burden I am,
on your shoulders?
May I remind you that the world turns a way
and I run the other.
And this, my friends, is toxic
I'm like a hamster put in a cage,
exhausted,
on the verge of death
My toxicity,
is the burden of the world,
It spreads like water in the sand,
It spreads like the plague
Toxicity is much worse than death,
It is painful
And consuming
Like a role in a play
In which the curtains never close.

Projecting through time, space and the now,
no sense of time, we all know that doesn't matter.
Seeing through a lens of pixelated imagery,
no wonder none of this ever seems like reality.
Just take a minute.
Sit back and breath a little deeper.
Take in the beauty of every living thing.
Appreciate what you have and to be able to witness today.
Make a stand for something that truly matters.
Make your heart smile and soul sing,
for your projections will be all you have left.
So don't take for granted those little things.
Live free.

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

    .  .   .   .  .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.