I am made of magnetic masks, smiles, surprise, sunrise, light in flighty eyes, flint, glinting winks, mouths, teeth, clouds, thieves.
I am made of blood and stone and rusty nails and blue light refracted in water and smashed iPhones and laughter and eyes and forests.
I am made of fuck that and hiya and after you and what a load of crap and what do you think and what did you say and yes please and see ya.
I am made of Paz and Eliot and Michaux and Breton and Mansour and Pizarnik and Harsent and Blake and Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti and Plath.
I am made of Schoenberg and Saariaho and Slipknot and Sex Pistols and Stravinsky and Sciarrino and Slayer and System of a Down and Scriabin.
I am made of nothing and something and odd things and lost things and broken things and imagined things and silly things and vision things.
I am made of putty flesh and dubious liquids and hardness and slop and jellies and tautness and silk and dead leaves and mists.
I am made of unremarkable and weird and nice and psychotic and autistic and fun and supportive and boring and complicated and forgettable.
I am made of devour and gulp and search and stumble and make and unmake and fuck and sleep and listen and whisper and forget and remember.
I am made of falling down and swimming through and walking in and staying away and flying by and sitting out and jumping over.
I am made of adversely and perversely and happily and luckily and drearily and stupidly and hopefully and morbidly and tenderly and slowly.
I am made of check shirts and slouch beanies and stiff ties and slick suits and no hair and NIN t-shirts and smart shoes and nakedness.
I am made of glitches and mirages and tricks of the light and illusions and delusions and confusions and contusions and lightless nights.
I am made of burning furniture, car headlights, riot police, scarred spaces, the sea, horror movies, vampire cats, mirrors, mannequins, mud.
I am made of typed words, scrawled words, spoken words, words set in stone, quicksand words, made-up words, anticipated words, worm words.
I am made of tittered tweets and loose threads and botched posts and larval poems and egg texts and hopeless monsters buried in rows.
I am made of Photoshopped punk surrealism and stuttering feeds and scratches on the black screen and junk poetry.
I am made of @echovirus12 and @chimeragroup0 and @badbadpoet and Russian doll avatars and a snowman and a smeared blue skull.
I am made of a little boy setting fire to a tree and a man with a goatee lighting a cigarette and a clean-shaven man putting a log on a fire.
I am made of mannequins and Mr Punch and Jack Ketch and Eve and Max and a sleeping man and the Bird King and Medusa and a nameless narrator.
I am made of dirt, dust, diseases, dystopias, dynasties, disasters, dressing rooms, dishes, despots, diptychs, districts, debts.
I am made of he, she, it, they, us, we, no one, someone, anyone, anyway, anywhere, any, many, money, honey, humble dumbness, numb fun.
I am made of mad cast-offs and sad glades and fast frosts and fronds and fins and moons and moans and makeup and waking up.
I am made of eye a maid of eyes not afraid of my my my not afraid of waves silent at night silent on the shore before I was made.