Thread: A Dead Brain is Not Sterilized

This is an older poem that I've recently come back to and edited. It's probably the hardest poem I've ever written.

Dedicated to Neill. I love you. I miss you.

I. A Dead Brain is Not Sterilized

Black veins. Expanding crevices.
Lackluster liquid squirts, bursts through
convex walls into a body, empty spaces.
The waterfall envelops (it is consuming) the
echoes that screamed me the lullaby that soothed
you to death. Wooden, dirty slumber. Even stony.

It ate my song. He is melting, but he’s more than just wax.
“Heroin overdose,” the doctors said. “Brain-dead,”
the doctors said. Hospitals are too white, spirited
into the city where lungs have no bodies and
bodies have dead brains. Sterilized. Quarantined.
(Only on the hygienic surface.)

Ashen coats, sheets, robes, blankets, walls
make us oppositely blind. Where is my
life-support when the morgue overflows,
when everything is rotting, peeling (not just his body),
and all that is left is an angel absent a nose?

Candles have no brains, but he’s more than just wax.
He did drip one time or maybe another; barely
noticeable. And nobody said it was so easy
to burn out. And now I need more than just
white light to feed the empty bed, even more
than any liquid. Crumbly glass and plastic on
concrete garage floors, where the needles can’t puncture.
No pressure, except enough to sever, and the click
explodes in my eardrums.

But the table rotated,
so your chair is not missing (I tell myself so).
That’s when my ears are removed. Oh, gladly. If
I can’t hear your voice anyway, does it matter
if it is swallowed by God, dusted over by alleyway
soot and cigarette smoke, then cleansed in acidic diagnosis?

Not another syllable with a dead brain. Ugly brain.
No good anyway. You were silent for a long time.
Just machines droning. Beeping. Humming. All
to the tempo of your nothing language. And at once,
as it’s all abducted, it’s not just your brain that is

dead.

II. What A Dead Brain Thinks

It began. Ripples. Pinches.
No. Reverse, wasn’t it? A boy
played with his syringe everyday.
Once in the leg. Twice in the arm. Then
came the ripples. “Good for the
soul,” his fingers murmured. No.
It was my fingers. Fingernails. Euphoria
in a cylinder and the seconds shrink. What?
I’ll have another hit. Please?
Drip. Glass.
Colors dwindle; shapeless terror in
and out of focus. Breaking. The lips are
circular like bottle caps. Serrated fangs,
scarlet cloth. Echoes ignite the silence,
a heart booming with nothing exhaled.
Falling.
Back.
Down.
Oh! But
the will is mine to sink
in sand. Gritty grains to
course against and through
my skin. So hardly.
And blood on rock, I
blink into slumber, a peace
I only hope to muster.
If sand could sing, a descant
of vibrant vibrato, in G,
that molds to the heart's
innards, I could grasp
air. Cool, clean breaths,
not shriveled. Yet.
But no voice, and I am
swallowed.
Another one damned—
there goes life in grated,
slimy slivers with alarming
hallucinations of upset.
The world was amputated
from the hinges of my body.
Falling. Street lights passing.
And there I go: to the sidewalk
with car horns shuddering.
Dissonant chimes of lovers
ring to my ghost.
Dried up am I today. Bad day. Your bad day.
Some would say I am numb.

Wow I love its vibe, kept me enthralled all the way through! vary well written and worded, and vary creepy hehe. Keep up the good work

Wonderful. I prefer the first part over the second and think you should make the 2nd more like the 1st, with longer lines that explain a bit more, but that's just my opinion. Maybe you wanted to make it that way to illustrate that a dead brain is not quite so lucid as a living one.

And I agree with Chiefspider, it does have a special sort of vibe. Are you a professional writer?

Thanks guys. The parts are very different because they're two completely different voices. Oh, and I'm anything but a professional. I'm a biochemistry student. But I've always wanted to take a writing class because it's something I really enjoy.

It's great you enjoy something you do extremely well. I recall reading the first part back when I was too shy to reply very often. I can see you've changed it a bit from what I remember. I don't have the time I'd like to devote to this at the moment, so I'll settle for this for the time being. Your word choices and imagery are superb in both parts, although the second will need a bit more deciphering on my part. The second part has me quite intrigued as I was literally dying twice, very lucid until I actually began to check out. You've tidbits in that piece that make a whole lotta sense to me, yet again to the point of discomfort. I don't have time to cite my favorite lines, these I want to savor slowly like fine wine. Only thing even close to a nit would be some of the line breaks. Everyone has their own style, so in no way are they incorrect, but there were a couple (not many by any means) that served as a speed bump to me, and most probably only me. Again, time is short, but I'll return as soon as possible to elaborate further. Fine work, Angel, please be proud of your pen, it serves you extremely well.

Best,
Lisa

Angel, beauty in the ugly. You've managed it magnificently. Not many people can pull this off. Story with imagery abounding. Just one of many examples. I liked the simplicity.

The lips are
circular like bottle caps.

A difficult poem to re-write, indeed. I have a dear friend who was a heroin addict and overdosed. So powerful, this piece, you've given me incentive to contemplate my own experience and write.

Both of these are really good, I particularly like the first. Your use of (information in the brackets) really adds to the poem, I feel like it really aids the reader to see your perspective. These were very thought provoking pieces, really good job.
-Ian

Thanks everyone.

Lisa, I know exactly what you're talking about with the line breaks. That was definitely a specific point of this poem. Years ago when all of this happened, everything in my life was broken and I wasn't ready for it to break (I guess no one ever is). And nothing made sense to me. And so when I wrote the first part (my perspective), I wanted to break the lines before they were ready. I wanted it to be jarring.

But the first version of this poem got a similar comment, so you're not alone is thinking that.

The way that you concluded the first part was perfect.

I really enjoy your imagery. There's something in every line, not a word wasted.