Who I Was

Who I was. A thing such as breathing and experience, as close as my flesh, blurring lines in unpredictable curves full of color and sound. Representation of conscious energy resonating through the street. Walking around the room picturing black and red birds. Telling terrible tales of eternal damnation and recurrent shapes without definition. Glitter tipped wings lighting the night in faded yellow.

I am beyond time, beyond the limits of life and death, a roar, a wind, a wild cackling. Trees shiver and the cells of this apparent form vibrate back in neon black. Right. Darkness that pours out of eyes and mouth shining black, the threshold to limitless fire. Strange boys and golden crowns. Yellow kings and rivers of wanted things.

The sporadic affections of a few friends covered in dirt and sticky leaves and kisses. Staring up at the sky, listening to the sound of distant stars who sing in unison. Bending, pounding, growling shaking, knowing that I had ever wanted things like these. A thing such as breathing and experience, as close as my flesh, blurring lines in unpredictable curves full of color and sound. Who I was. Recurrent threshold to limitless fire.

Representation of black and red birds and shampoo bottles telling terrible tales of eternal damnation and recurrent shapes without definition. Beyond time. Beyond the limits of who I was. Whistles blowing. Spiraling currents stopping not at the borders of biology, formed from my own mind in unpredictable curves. Incoherent discordant explosions of smiling, walking, pressing my finger into the circle full of mountains of sand and intricate structures. I was music playing in the late afternoon. A voice on the radio reciting a strange litany of psycho babble. Strange boys and golden crowns. Yellow kings and rivers of wanted things.

Parallel formations in a dark garden. Nakedness not just unabashed, but fusing thoughts into cursive patterns. Complex reconfigurations that nobody would ever remember. Prerecorded music infused with chaos. Cells  yowling back. Darkness that pours out of eyes and mouth shining through a chain of carnival lights. Pulsing currents shining darkly at the borders of biology. Beyond limits.

Books pressed tightly against stomach with new hands and muscles and thin lines of electricity, the threshold to darkness. Curved fingerprints telling terrible tales. I am my flesh blurring, vibrating in neon black beyond the limits of life and death. Telling terrible tales of black and red birds and recurrent trees without stars who sing in unison. Dirt and sticky leaves shining darkly beyond time. The threshold to neon black fire. Growling, shaking, pounding, bending as close as my flesh. Yes. Right. Glitter tipped wings lighting the night in faded yellow. I had ever wanted things like these.

Vibration Incorporate

What are they doing with my mind?
You ask as they reach in with silky fingers to comb through the cobwebs behind your cranium. You recognize them from a long time ago, from when you were not even you but rather one of your ancestors, from when The Black Forrest was a place and not a prefix to the word “ham”.
Blue and white and fine as mists but strong like magnets. They have always made these sounds, or rather these sounds occur in synchronicity with their presence. These are sounds that you forget when you aren’t hearing them. Sounds that you can’t make with your throat, sounds that make your whole body vibrate, or perhaps make your whole vibration incorporate or discorporate depending on the situation and the point of view.
They do things with your mind.
You remember them from the distant future in which you as you previously thought of yourself do not exist but rather are a thing of the past. This you is the descendant of that you, having inherited some portion of the same genetic data that once ordered the structure of your matter. But this you is something else too, something more related to the smart phone you used to carry in your pocket when you were that you, and perhaps something else too.
What are they doing with my mind?
You ask as they reach in with silky fingers to comb through the cobwebs behind your cranium. But at this point you can’t recall that you ever had a cranium. Were you really once something monkey, walking, laughing, man, jabber? Smile, twitch, sticky, hot, death maker.
What were you? You don’t even want to remember. You are busy now, stretching out like gossamer streamers of blue cotton candy, like a cloud of dust, a nebula, soft and light, reaching your silky fingers into…what?
Into….what?
Into…what?