Psychotic’s Prayer or the Sufi Path to Synthetic Nihilo
by Khashayar Mohammadi
“subliminal messages
in a thicket
of REM.”—Samuel Strathman
words walk me to myself
a gap
on the verb of psychosis
between the self
and the adjected I breaking
the divine in the pleasure of the self
not the consciousness breaking,
/ the screen now imagined above: radiant/
// all is refined into pure light energy:
/// hands over keyboard typing: shadows form along fingers: are gray
are actually green-gray are actually lesser perceived colors in the natural.
//// in echoing winds I hear time tessellating the armor-shell of
the self into language:
///// the kiss between meaning and teeming
possibilities of the self, of Us born into rivers, unable to unsee
the vastness of the ocean.
when the self is broken the self stays in the self.
tomorrow the internet reader skims the brightest Royal Blue Times New Roman article heading
about the self editing itself.
this is tomorrow not being the same,
this is the self not splitting because of language
this is the self preserved on the tongue tip
this is the self prosthetic to time
the self is directionally blended into the I
this is the self who stayed
where I used to part into the cycle is now the warmth of another soul talking me down after.
where I used to part now marks where I’ll always be
where I used to part there used to be no words
where I used to part now houses hope
I got off where I used to part and now I’m waiting
I got off where I used to part and now I’m self-becoming
It was words that got me off that running horse of schizo
it was words that talked me off the ledge
it was wordswordswordswordswords
the rhythm of the automotive
now i am so much human aching
draped skin on the nightstand
now I am these little word farms I’m raising on this tongue,
bursting with utterance
a breath is a lifetime
thoughtspill/
dream tongue,
language floating like the impending presence of air.
the only truth of psychosis is waking up to scribbles
and I’m here writing in split-screen
right hand in childhood
picking orange blossoms
for thickets of memory
left hand typing
what is there to keep me from cheating time to relive
but the language-trigger pulled and killing
language compounds interest daily
this is why I am slack-jawed and stiff-necked
it takes hours of calming down to oppress the primal urge to "self-preserve":
the most commonly deemed cosmic cost of reality
/schizo from schism a duality unable to settle
unable to look into mirrors
afraid of the red marble glare in the eye
the bedroom windows overlooking suicide
where sounds are colored by intensity
and words linger, muddied into the monotone
in this sonic space borrowed, nothing settles for longer than a self.
each child is born on the surface of the tongue with a single hint to life:
that taste zones have long been proven wrong
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Khashayar “Kess” Mohammadi (He/They) is a queer, Iranian born, Toronto-based Poet, Writer, and Translator. They are the winner of the Vallum Poetry Prize 2021 and author of four poetry chapbooks. Their debut poetry collection Me, You, Then Snow is out with Gordon Hill Press. @DearKestrel on Instagram and Twitter.