The Senile Neurologist

studied himself to the end
The old neurologist is slowly dying
All his brain cells are in sad disarray
Fifty billion neurones he recently lost
Have accelerated his cerebral decay
Dendrites have shrunk to critical lengths
Causing signals to wander and stray
His dearest memories he cannot retrieve
Due to severe post-synaptic delay
All information pulses through slowly
When stripped of its core attributes
He sends sensory-motor segments
Out through preferred striatal routes
Most of his vital transmitters
Have become trapped in damaged nodes
All his creative efforts end up in knots
Losing their contents and their codes
His attention has completely wandered
After seratonin levels just fell
All semantic memory has deserted him
But episodic still serves him well
His concentration refuses to focus
Since noradrenalin froze in the trace
When asked to name his mother’s son
He looked puzzled and poked at his face
His fine motoric remains unaffected
So long as the dopamine flows
The only thing he complains about
Is a little numbness in his toes
At death he bequeathed all he owned
To neurological research on himself
Happily his head is now a bronze bust
But his brain gathers dust on a shelf


© Gothicman 2020
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critique and comments welcome.

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I found this very interesting, wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for him or applaud his only complaint of numb toes.
I greatly admire your ability to turn such a complex body part as the brain into a such an interesting and insightful poem. Sue.


Clever fusion of science and art I can empathise with your subject. I think my brain is gathering dust already.

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