"synesthetic" poems
how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept
neither rest nor return
are purpose
neither love nor hate
are purpose
neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question
perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain
it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god
and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent
but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
A- She is just like me. A leader. A strong, independent, bisexual woman, she controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.
B-He's a nice guy, a bit pretentious, but nothing too special. The first time I saw Friends, I new that Ross was literally the letter B incarnated.
C- B's best friend, goes by male pronouns, but is gender fluid sometimes. He is much more genuine than B.
D- One of A's closest friend. She is cool, and kind of like a bad *** English teacher.
E- A **** Your typical school bully. He's dating D.
F- E's wing-man, but like the stereotypical wing-man, he is kind hearted, but too much of a shy follower. And he likes D.
G- H's brother. Good student, slightly over weight, and just as homosexual as his sister.
H- The "mom" of the friend group. She is smart and supportive. My favorite lesbian of the alphabet.
I- A real cool dude. Spiky hair and sunglasses. He likes to lean against brick walls and just look cool. Very cool.
J- He is K's best friend.
K- She is J's best friend.
L- He hangs out with M, but not too much because he really isn't found of her littler sister N. He's too much of a wimp for my taste.
M- She is a really independent confident girl. She goes on double dates with O, P, and her sister N. She has a side thing going on with the letter A.
N- She lives in the shadow of her sister. She kind of reminds me of my own sister.
O- He is P's best friend, and always tells him what to do. He reminds me of E, but they've never met.
P- Let's O push him around. He hangs out with O, M, and N. But his true love is Q.
Q- She is quiet, but strong. She is madly in love with P. They sneak out together a lot. She has over protecting parents.
R- She is the leader of the Q-R-S friend group. A transgender and asexual bad *** She supports Q and P, but not S and T
S- Tries to listen to her older friend R, but is just a good kid making bad decisions. She has a HUGE crush on both T and U.
T- Loves U. Strong male, plays football and works at a car wash.
U- She's a princess. Very quiet and polite. In a relationship with T, but I don't know her true intentions.
V- U's older sibling. A-gender and a CEO of some big business.
W- Same personality as H, but not as motherly, and bisexual.
X- The third wheel to the X-Y-Z clan. Also agender, and really just a fly on the wall. They sees a lot, but really don't like to socialize. But they really like going to the zoo.
Y- Z's beta. Her best friend, and wife. They are ride and die ******* for life.
Z- Just like A. Exactly like A. Only she is in a committed relationship with Y. She controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey,
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Through the act of speaking vividly, we enter into a flirtation with the domain of the imagination.
The ability to associate sounds, or the small mouth noises of language, with meaningful internal images, is a synesthetic activity.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
What does samkhya have to do with yoga?
Dual teaching like I told you twice
They say theres….
2 eternal principles manifest in the universe
nature and the self, knowledge like pursua and prakriti different and yet same in this verse
Salvation through transcenscion duality is false i ought to mention
see through it like fallacy, I bless you no curse now apphrension
like flower prints we impresstoo
Lying and violence distract you from your higher purpose
You think you got swag psh better listen thrice so you know you heard this
the only style you got is the life you gotta clean up
clean up your lifestyle , clean up your style, clean up your lifestyle, clean up yo …. liberation comes from
Samadhi : contemplate : enlightened like we : got no hate upon me
but first you gotta meditate, dhyana and control your breathe
asana like my chest is pranayamic some speak false **** like they got no teeth, these thoughts they squeeze but
The churning of the mind cesses when you find
time to practice seeing the self you framing in kind
Epileptic I seizure mind, so epic synesthetic ,
that ***** divine storm like a portal, shorn my form as a mortal
Come and See the world as it truly is
Ill exist till I die, no reincarnation for I and I
namaste , en lakesh multi-lingual in these cypher cries
Valid means of knowledge:
Did you observe?
Could you infer?
Do they speak with authority?
Could you preach the analogy?
Just because you don’t see
Doesn’t mean it won’t be
Just because you don’t see
doesn’t mean that the **** won’t be
How do I know I am not the only person in the universe
I know my experience
They display markers
We speak we write We **** we fight
We wish We cry we live we die
so maybe were all conscious
looking at you like
maybe you bought this,
cautious we want this, auspice truth
Smoke gone ghost like I haunt this
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
I barely survived the Devils hour last night
There was music playing in my ears for awhile, a strange combination of tunes I became enveloped in
They cushioned my thoughts as I read, blocking out the birds that started chirping out of turn, and the crosswalk beeping every three minutes on the dot
The reason I almost didn't survive, however, had nothing to do with the music or the story or the crosswalk
I heard something coming for me
A shadow, but I heard it
It comes for me some nights
There's no pattern like the crosswalk signal
I've fought it before, so I am usually ready for it
But this time I forgot to bring my armor to the orchestra
I came exposed, in an oversized Sherpa coat
You see, I was cold
The armor would have chilled my skin
I'm so sorry I forgot it, my shield too
I was unprepared
The synesthetic darkness crept over me, like an invisible thunderstorm, or the lowest note on a bass guitar, or the smell of burnt toast
I could not fight it
I am sorry
I will try harder
Do not forget your armor, they said
We know certain things will always happen, they said
One, is that the crosswalk signal will always beep every three minutes
The other, is that the darkness will come, and it will prey on those who are not prepared.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
(I. Summer ‘ 13)
Freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
Smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey—
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
(II. Fall ’13)
Spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to Sunday,
built me up to shatter jaws,
car windows—me
bar stool battered,
you my perfect carpenter,
smile with wooden teeth
(you made them yourself)
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.
(III. Winter ’13)
Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-boned, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes--
we are palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.
founder a self, rusty copper
with adamantine eyes,
steel core unbroken by absence,
drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.
Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endlessly,
a clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once
it very much mattered.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
There are stars here!
There are stars here, my friends!
And as I lie among the streetlight-
-cast penumbras staring at the
Pentahedral crystal hammock jungle gym
I am with them!
I am with them in wonder
In joy in amazement in ecstasy in open-
-eyed revelation of truth
As I realize I was born not
In a city of shadows
But in a city of such blinding brightness
That I could never marvel at the darkness
and the darkness is beautiful here.
Perfect halogen moonbeam outlines of imperfect
Bodies frolicking in selfprescribed madness
Spinning in the chemical centrifuge
Until lights become light and
encircles us
endlessly
Creating its own central outward
Gravity
As I become you become me
And we sail this endless sea of
Blackness
And we fall ever deeper into the great
Singularity
everconsuming everlasting
All Encompassing
Feeling Grasping Gasping
Growing
Seeing
Darkness.
Instruments of depravity
Forged great, twisted
Spinal curvatures held proud
And feared by the mighty
For our words poison their youth
Revealing our shadowy enlightenment
Clarifying with murky water
Promises of intangible tangibilities.
Beautifying chaotic tangled
Masses forming perfection in
nebulous
amorphism.
Downward, Downward
Circling ever downward
Spiraling veraciously downward
Downward the holy!
Downward the giving!
Downward unto Heaven!
Downward unto Hell!
Downward unto Creation!
Down.
Where the soul becomes concrete
And the concrete vague
synesthetic
bliss.
The Darkness is beautiful here.
6 September 20l0
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
though i’ve never smoked a cigarette
i’ve always loved the smell of tobacco.
it reminds me of shows in seedy concert halls
and the gum my father chewed to get sober
minty-fresh nicorette replacing the scent
of the wine that imbued his every breath.
i recall my grandpa, the way he sat on the porch, surrounded
by nana’s garden, listening to the songs of birds
the stub of his last cigarette, poised between frail fingers.
as it withered, he withered with it.
their walls stained yellow from the nicotine
like some vintage sepia photograph.
through synesthetic memories, i can taste the
way cigarette smoke wafted through the summer air when
my friends and i sat on our back porch, reminiscing,
nostalgia suffocating, tightening its grip like a vise about our windpipes.
i’ve never even smoked a cigarette
but they always remind me of who i used to be
before i lost what was left of my innocence.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
You always leave out the end.
The part where the dream turns into a nightmare,
When the bodies turn to dust in your hand
Where what you thought were clothes were just threads.
The one where everything shrunk in the wash and all your favorite shirts are too tight on your ribcage.
You'll leave out the end
Hoping it won't come.
I never told you I live a synesthetic life
That we see red differently.
What appears to you as the fires of passion,
I can only see as a burning flame.
You skipped class on all the days a girl came in crying.
You keep drowning in waters that were never meant to hold you
And reaching for the first thing that looks like a lifeboat.
You pretend not to see the cracks in my hull
As if your broken words could ever heal my broken frame.
I pretend not to see the way your eyes still light up at the sound of her name.
Didn't anyone ever tell you you can't make homes out of people?
Why did no one warn you about the danger of resting your head where it cannot permanently lay?
You were the ropes I tied myself to the train tracks with
But all you could see in me was the beginning that the ending of her erased.
And how can you tell me you understand
When you've only ever looked at me like a paperweight?
I'd hold you down until you were ready to let yourself be used again,
And then you'd leave me to sit and collect dust with all the others who were never enough to put the pieces back together for you.
Someday the end will feel like an accustomed coffin
And though you'll never quite fit comfortably,
You'll let it bury you,
Sitting dully in the dark of the Earth,
And you'll learn to only see the stabbing edges
As another numbing pain.
The apples in your garden will have all turned to snakes.
Roll my body in the rug or bury me under the floorboards.
I'll listen to your footsteps
Like a Heartbeat you swore would mean more if it stopped.
I'll sleep below
While the radio static sings lullabies only you can hear.
Lay me to rest under the floorboards
A funeral for a love never destined to last.
Lay me to rest under the floorboards we danced on,
But don't you dare drown me.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
An unlikely pair
of equal beauty.
Art of two forms,
rarely seen together.
Visio-Audio,
Stimulation,
Communication,
Synesthetic fusion,
Joy amongst confusion.
Every word,
Brings forth a stroke of imagination,
every beat,
an unmatchable sensation.
Hues of music,
a trance in your mind.
An eclectic sound painting,
A dance of grandeur.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
For all I know,
At the atomic level
There aren't any dreams
Except possibly this one.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 3:30 PM UTC
A sumptuous lounge,
The deck burnished gold.
Twisted in a youthful tangle,
She awakes to fold a tanned calf
Beneath a taut thigh.
Arms extend upward and inspire
A long languid yawn.
Thick ebon tresses are askew
In a lovely rumpled mess
And beneath the lashes, the hue is one
With the mid-morning sea as
She pauses in a synesthetic trance
To face the white sails
Stark against their cerulean canvas,
And she smiles at the sound of sky.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Silent colors swaying away,
Like a blade that cuts the stars.
A far reach,
Yet close enough to blind.
The emotional synesthesia of my heart and mind,
Conspire to light the fires beneath,
And set myself ablaze on the flameless pyre.
I stare at the wares that I have created,
As I continue the debate with me, myself, and I.
Ticking away.
The timeless eyes.
Bear witness.
To the lightless skies.
The silent colors.
That only I can see.
These synesthetic linguistics.
That fall away.
Onto the synthetic pages.
To which you read.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
How can I live brain damaged and disfigured like the lights seeping in through the walls don't trigger frightening synesthetic psychoses that exile my mind from the pinnacle of this oasis to the furthest borders of the existential void?
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC