Synesthesia

my mind is

a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and

taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and

chipping with sharp fatal tools

in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of

chrome and execute strides of cobalt

nevertheless i

feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am

becoming something a little different, in fact

myself

hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet

bellowings

― E.E. Cummings

A Black, E white, I red, U green, O blue : vowels,

I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins:

A, black velvety jacket of brilliant flies

Which buzz around cruel smells,

Gulfs of shadow; E, whiteness of vapours and of tents,

Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley;

I, purples, spat blood, smile of beautiful lips

In anger or in the raptures of penitence;

U, waves, divine shudderings of viridian seas,

The peace of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of the furrows

Which alchemy prints on broad studious foreheads;

O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,

Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels:

O the Omega, the violet ray of Her Eyes!

-Arthur Rimbaud