Synaesthesia

This is the most beautiful poem I’ve read in ages. I wish I had synaesthesia – I have the lower end of it I guess. I was explaining to Elizabeth how when writing I will almost taste a sentence as being green, or lilac, or a bit the wrong blue. “I have exactly the same thing!” she said. Of course she did, because we are Not Quite Sisters.

Paraic O’Donnell

It’s nothing really, just

a way of treasuring

things, a feasting

on the bright

world that borders

on the pathological,

on the unseemly

maw of wet nerves,

the gape that swallows

every spine, tingles even

in the absence

of signal, lusts for

every fluke of noise

covets wave

and particle alike

collapsing always,

coming home drunk

or high and falling

asleep in that deep

plexus

where all our seemings cross

where the overspill

was the light under

overpasses, was the solace

of amethysts

and deep kissing

where the numbers

of your birthday

were—write this down—

magnesium almost

and chlorophyll

and something like honey.

View original post

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s