I tuned inward.
Sanity lost signal.
Pronouns dropped…
no them,
no you…
memory chewing its own tape.
Static poured in.
Vision smeared,
edges cut.
Needle trapped
between stations.
You feed the noise:
drink, powder, smoke, bodies…
any socket
that hisses quiet
for a second.
I burned the former self
to ash.
Left a cavity.
Filled it with volume.
Bass thud.
Looped distortion…
walls flex
with the pulse.
A decade
skipped,
caught in feedback.
A crack opens in the casing.
Hairline split
through the crown.
Cold air threads
a thin, clean tone.
The world erases:
mother, lover, friends, name.
Ghost frequencies.
I rebuild
from one filament
still transmitting.
Brain / pain…
same circuitry
that dragged me under
and left one spark
resting
inside the skull.
You see bedsits:
smoke‑boxes,
walls sweating nicotine.
Theft, shame, fear
broadcast nightly…
pulse ticking too loud
in the pillow.
My childhood trick:
turn the dial hard,
flood the room.
Make the noise
bigger than the ache.
I lock onto light.
Not blaze.
Just
a thin beam
inside the skull.
Enough.
I am still here.
— UpsilonA
I love the way you toy with the words and they sort of tumble and kind of build. Very interesting things at play here!
Nice one in a subtle psychedelic simplicity...