#cereberal

[yourtruegae]

Based on Iain Reid's novel of the same name

[nudeartpluspoetry]

Nuts and Washers

I would tell you what I'm thinking about but I can't. Except perhaps in pieces-- debris arriving on shore, nothing about how the flow brought it. Here's a piece: "You can use a nut as a washer but not a washer as a nut." I thought something similar to this (the shape of language is not the exact shape of thought) while the thought factory roared in the background. It seems much easier to invent what I'm thinking or give approximations, tailor them to conventions of discourse, and keep moving through life, remaining aloof from quests, prophecy, and other forms of certainty. What do you think? hans ostrom 2018

[alexandr-searching]

sleep, waking, sleep

eyelids peeled back to blinding white. straight jackets lined with brass buttons. cerebral torments of lightning storms that strike across the skull. fingernails, ripped to bleeding strips of flesh. steps from moist feet against cold stone, leaving foot prints. a nightmare that plays on repeat, as you rub the sleep from your eyes. you grab hold of sheets as you feel your body dragged up from the bed while invaders pull you towards their ship. the falling into the endless void. the spinning starry world that makes nauseous reality. praying to saints that look like Rorschach tests of splint ink on white sheets. a walking ghost in the night whose cloak gives the amorphous spirit pure garb. walking in the dead of night towards the grand father clock, tick, tick, tick ticking away at sanity. feet that from behind are pulled up so heads are parallel to wooden floors hang in orbit. the tossing and turning of that provides no comfort in the comfort of bed. sleep, waking, sleep, that coy apparition that haunts you while you wake, and refuses to answer while you lie in the ground. nothing frees you from insomnia, the long night that fades into day break so that all the phantom my pass into shadow. a puppet controlled from above with pale blue veins. an asylum patient in solitary confinement talking to walls, writing with bodily fluids. spitting and laughing at the voices in their head. sleep, waking sleep, that curse to us all.