Sinking, melting, ensnared, churning.
I am turning into a neon glaze onstage,
in front of blue velvet curtains,
diffusing across the floorboards.
The flamenco dancers raise their heavy arms,
and they push down.
The stage fades, the facade collapses,
and now I know
how it feels to melt.
You're not listening.
I'm dreaming of lower fidelity dreams.
So that I can't hear myself melting
in all of the white noise,
an ambient hiss that floats around
these polyphonic negative dreams
(make it stop. make it stop-)
It was quiet at first.
Here comes the roar.
God, stop me from melting.
My skin is sloughing off.
(Swell, tumult, burst eardrums, silence.)
The first-story jump out of an open winter window.