If I dismember the sky,
will the rainbow chunks
bleed prismatic liquid?
Will I become death,
destroyer of hallucinated worlds?
Of amorphous blobs of color
that shapeshift and ooze.
Of pink elephants and
sea monsters deep above.
Psychedelia, teach me dissociation.
How to lose oneself in
liminal spaces. The whiteness of
radio static and eerie contemporary
architecture. To float outside
the body, inhabit the realms
of tarot cards and mystics.
House music at the helm
of my hips, I find razzmatazz
at kikis and rat-a-tat
in voguing dancers. I want to
grab the girl in the reciprocal
mirror and pull myself through
to her extra-dimensional pocket
in a higher plane of existence.
Disembodied, immaterial, unknown
to time. Buoyancy without water
or air. To ascend, ascend, ascend.
Kya Brooks ’25 (kyabrooks@college.harvard.edu) writes poetry for the Independent.