stephen's

this is

knees breaking
bones scraping
neck jerking
body trembling
eyes racing
speech slurring
spine cracking
paint dripping
words lying
sleep dying
life freezing
love living
lines drawing
flames whipping
tears falling
love dying
family drifting
noses flaring
cats fighting
canvas ripping
holes absorbing
cigarettes burning
lungs blackening
days waning
moons reflecting
suns exploding
dolls bleeding
leaves crackling
screens glowing
flowers growing
fall dawning
love growing
paintings warping
tissues crumpling
furniture inhabiting
smoke filling

our hearts up with glory
and the noise surrounding my eyes
cannot be seen or heard
but the smell is starting to kill me.

II.
these words

are pulsating upon my screen,
just like lust pulsates in whores,
and nothing sates this insatiable desire
to be and belong anywhere i am;

i am great friends with nowhere,
best friends with isolation,
and whatever i do
to myself
to allow metaphors
to control my body,
and to break bones
(and bridges) when neccessary.

you need to walk a mile in my shoes,
feel this internal war wage within the jumps of my synapses
spaces between cells (sells)
sells myself short.

III.
and then i said

fuck white noise.