Birgitte
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neuraldelirium.bsky.social
Birgitte
@neuraldelirium.bsky.social
250 followers 270 following 20 posts
Sometimes I write poems
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neuraldelirium.bsky.social
First new #poem in a while
September 28, 2025 at 8:07 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
#poem
March 18, 2025 at 7:12 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
#poem
March 2, 2025 at 7:22 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
LinkedIn #poem
February 16, 2025 at 10:38 AM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
#erasurepoem
Kantlator has the Sunday blues
Erasure poem on a page in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason: Now, we must stop employment this mere illusion and experience time and space.
January 26, 2025 at 6:57 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
Reading my #poem When snow is about to fall.
January 25, 2025 at 11:50 AM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
#poem
As a compensation for a tiredness brought on by the lack of empty rooms with soft, warm light and old wooden floorboards that creak under my boots when I walk in and position myself in what I guess is the room's middle to let my arms hang down heavy my fists unclenched, my palms vibrating at the relief of not needing to reach or sell anything, I have started buying lemons with green leaves still attached. I have skinned and squeezed them but their leaves are drying in the bowl detached reminders of something hopeful with deep roots. @neural_delirium
January 19, 2025 at 4:35 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
Before snow dream #poem
It isn’t easy without a body. Air is thick when nothing pushes against it. Words are still there, and trees, their bark hesitantly cold and full of waiting life. Orange Christmas lights glowing on a red fence in a driveway. It’s their dream. They can make it snow now but they want to hold on to the night as it is when snow is about to fall but still hasn’t.
December 15, 2024 at 4:33 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
FAQ #poem
FAR Q: Can I talk to the forest through the keyhole? A: Yes, but keep the syllable count low. And please avoid long vowels. They stick to the leaves and make autumn arrive early. If your words are on the heavy side, kindly squeeze them through on a windy day when the leaves are already rustling. Q: Will the forest answer my questions? A: There has been some disagreement regarding this. Some argue that if you pick up a fallen, green leaf shortly after pushing your question words through the keyhole you can feel the answer by detaching the veins from the leaf blade and stitching them with white thread to a shirt your wear often. The stitches have to be on the inside so you can feel the forest answer when the leaf veins brush against your skin. A: Others say that the forest never answers questions.
November 23, 2024 at 8:22 AM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
These are the instructions #poem
These are the instructions Make coffee. Pour it. Hold a pen between your index and middle finger. Still holding the pen, rest the back of your hand on your thigh. Still holding the pen, nip tilted upwards, pick up the mug: Drink from it. Look out the window through the small triangle between the mug and the nip. There you have it. That time, the movements it held, and the triangle. It all belonged to you.
November 21, 2024 at 7:44 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
Questions for a November sunflower. #poetry
Poem on a photo of a sunflower on a balcony. Text on image: It’s November, the woman has forgotten how a summer feels, but the sunflower is still standing on the balcony, most petals intact and all. The woman asks it: If the neighbor comes out to smoke and sees me behead you will he think it’s: A: Gardening? B: A rescue mission? C: Simply brutal? Or will he understand the need to hold on to yellow for a little longer?
November 17, 2024 at 6:09 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
One of my Kantlator #erasurepoems in which I, depending on how you look at it, either brutally destroy or carefully distill a page in Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason.
The solution is to doubt human reason and question words always.
November 15, 2024 at 4:15 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
Dream script #poem
She had built a little sculpture, it wasn't much to look at. The red dress made it bolder. Nobody had given much thought to, or asked, what material she had used to build it. She was not exactly secretive, and, had they asked, she might have told them. They asked about other things. The red dress, who had made it? Was it meant for a doll? Why was the fabric so thick rough even? The choice of dress, she told them, had been a coincidence of sorts. A rag, given to her, that, when she found it in a drawer, had been crumbled up in the shape of a body, a bright red body, on fire, almost, in the morning light next to her own pale wrists. Faceless, as it now was, the sculpture had, nevertheless, created a language of its own. From its shelf in the museum cafeteria it would crumble, just enough, for visitors to look up to find out where the dust on their trays had come from. That way, the sculpture moved in and out of people's minds while its rough red dress grew larger and more billowing.
October 18, 2024 at 4:28 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
#poem
March 23, 2024 at 9:56 PM
neuraldelirium.bsky.social
By then
February 9, 2024 at 6:15 PM