doebrain

[doebrain]

i was named for a lamb,

but no one asked

what i did to the shepherd.

[doebrain]

missed your posts, you're wonderful as always <3 (in my mind I am friends with every single one of your poems)

omg 😭💗

[doebrain]

THE FALCONERS WIFE WRITES TO THE BRAIN IN HER JAR

my husband breeds raptors and each night he dreams them into fresher cruelties / i write to you, beloved cerebrum, because you are the only part of me that remains unshucked / you float in formaldehyde and yet i feel your wince each time a beak splits bone / they do it for the sport / they do it with clean plumage / once he asked me to stitch a falcons eyelid shut to keep it docile & i did it with a needle carved from regret / you have no eyelids, my darling, only folds—how lucky you are to miss nothing / i drink powdered milk and sleep on a bed made of tamarind skins / there is no music but the soft panic of feathers / i have not seen my reflection in 30 days / perhaps that's mercy

[doebrain]

i rehearsed escape by memorising the flight patterns of fish / they too suffer the tyranny of surface tension / they too know how it feels to be translucent and irrelevant / he keeps a ledger of my laughter / says it helps him measure sincerity / i only laugh when i am drowning / i drown often / i drown eloquently / the fish never came / but the surface broke

[doebrain]

PNEUMA, SEWN SHUT

i knew a man who swallowed needles for fun not pain just the sensation of being irrevocably full, stitched from inside out by intention not sin—sin is too vulgar a currency—i watched him like a scholar watches a dying dialect, mesmerised by the final gasps of coherence before extinction // my mother had a mirror in her throat & i climbed inside it, once, just once, to see what she saw when she wept: an orchard of blown-glass lungs, squealing // i think that’s when my panic took root, like an animal scenting fire in snow, subliminal & fragrant // they used to lock up women like me—too quick with our knives, too slow with our confessions, too slippery in our pursuit of something unnamable, yes unnamable—not divine just unrenderable—i wear fox bones around my ankles to make noise when i walk, to remind the house it is not safe just haunted

[doebrain]

THE FLESH FORGE

every morning begins with the dissection of a dream too spiny to touch with gloves i slip two fingers behind the left auricle & [crack] open the old thinking / the peristalsis of want / stained glass of pre-cognitive bloodletting: & i mean the wanting like metallurgy: the molten, the furnace, the tong, the breath-bloated membrane of heat collecting under the tongue & the scarred language of my previous existences written along my knuckles, one misread comma & you forget who you are / i’ve skinned so many versions of myself there are catacombs behind my eyes, real ones, with femurs stacked into prayers i do not read / i do not read / i watch the pigeons scatter at each step & it thrills me in a deeply unwholesome way / there is nothing sacred about the pedestrian suffering of a woman who feels too much so i architect myself a wound worthy of poetry / i braid horsehair into the stitches of my coats, press leeches to the nape / to drain the rational / to siphon clean all usable madness / they will call this restoration / they will call this beautiful & i will let them until i don’t

[doebrain]

Reading this page feels like What Lucy would feel and write about. You are Lucy in flesh.

How do you get to know about so many words?

i don’t think i understand this reference but it sounds very nice !!!!

i read a lot!!

[doebrain]

youre my favourite poet

ur my favourite little grey sphere in sunglasses 🩷

[doebrain]

where are you!

am still alive (but decided everything i write is terrible i am trying to get better at sharing despite that bc i don’t want to become afraid of surveillance again)

[doebrain]

MOTH TAMER

i traced the migration of velvet insects by listening to copper spoons vibrate in water and yes i understand now they were not velvet nor insects / just grief-shaped hallucinations birthed from ultraviolet insomnia

a room full of telescopes and i am only looking into broken snowglobes / i press my wrist to the frostbitten glass to leave evidence of heat / when i return the stain is gone as if nothing had ever tried to live here / as if absence could be sterile

i envy clarity / not knowing is a currency and i am bankrupt / i stitched coins into my scalpula to remind myself of value / they rusted / i rusted / the house rusted / even the wallpaper began to sob

i thought of leaving but the exit was alphabetical and i'd forgotten the sequence

[doebrain]

MY EYES HAVE BEEN TRAINED ON THE FORGETTING MACHINE

there is a woman with mercury bones living inside my radio. she sings only when i bleed. i pried open the speaker with a dental hook, found a lump of hair wrapped around my fifth birthday. do not translate that. my mother speaks through cracked windows now. her voice is filtered through drying herbs and unlabelled vials. what is the chemical formula for remorse? i wrote it down once on a matchbox and burned it before spelling the last syllable. now it's just cinders and possibility. the forgetting machine purrs like an old stove. it makes me tea. it refuses to boil.

[doebrain]

POLYPHONC SLEEP PARALYSIS AT THE LITHIUM WALTZ

i thought the rust in my knees meant divinity. (no). it meant minerals, decay with etiquette. the stench of antiseptic grief. i am trying to remember the precise angle of my father's chair when he left the window open // i memorised the dander of his solitude like a language lost to stonecutters. yes, there were moth-thin women flickering in the hallway. they touched my wrists only to adjust the hallucination. i was not the protagonist. i was the ashtray. each morning i drank the sequins of industrial dawn, swallowed roadkill ideograms and smiled with all my teeth. can you believe this used to be a bedroom? the sheets still smell like medicated tenderness. nothing but the softness of a bandage unwrapped too soon.

[doebrain]

Omg your works have such a visceral reaction in me— but then when i try to understand what really is going on it somehow makes absolutely no sense. Do you write with the intention of making it mean something or however your emotions lead you?

i think i just write the way i dream, or i dream the way that i cope. i have always had a painfully vivid imagination, & sometimes to survive i think my mind stitches unbearable things onto unrecognisable objects so it feels less like remembering and more like encryption. like if i write abt that mushroom i don’t have to say what he did. if i write abt the colour of dead wasps or how cordyceps eats ants from the inside, then maybe i can say pain without having to say pain. it is like building tiny ecosystems to keep the real thing caged. i write what i see when i close my eyes. i get obsessed with certain objects or strange biological phenomena and write about them for weeks before discarding them for the next fixation. i feel half in reality. i don’t mean to be cryptic or to write in symbols i am just writing how everything looks to me & how i experience existence

this did not answer ur question at all and i am half asleep but it is all i can think of to say. love u thank u for reading my things

[doebrain]

wondering if you have studied chemistry cuz I always see chemical terms in your writing

Not formally 🥲 just a special interest

[doebrain]

20/5/2025 4:44pm

i've not slept since 2006. i wake up in alleys with palms full of molybdenum & bee larvae. i think i might be becoming pastoral. at night i boil beetles into ink & draft proclamations of nothing. in spring i let strange men tie me to furniture with silk maps. sometimes i chew through them. sometimes i don't.

21/5/2025 7:34am

they say i never qualified for the sanctum. still they say my hands were too sterile. say i folded my rage into 5x7 envelopes & licked each one shut with insufficient ferocity. they say they say they say & meanwhile i am eating fruit under the table hoping the ants will understand.

[doebrain]

literally you might be my favorite poet ever like your writing is just so amazing and i aspire to write half as well as you one day

Omg stop I’m not meant to be someones favourite poet I’m not worthy 😭😭😭

[doebrain]

ISOTOPES OF A SCREAM

no one told me terror could be inherited through osmosis // grandmother boiled stones to sweeten the droughts // taught me how to use my own hair as fishing line // i learned to spot a liar by the cartilage of their left ear (all things have a signature) // i screamed for thirteen years and no one came, so the scream became isotopic, radioactive, self-replicating. now i taste uranium in my spit when i lie. the doctor says my lungs are pinker than they ought to be. i tell him: perhaps that’s where the screams nested. perhaps they are building furniture now.