infernalice

i don't live at home, sorry to say. i actually live 900 miles south of home, and i haven't been home in a while. home is the only place where my dented speakers and plastic remote device are at ease, ceasing the blinking of their annoying lights. home is the only thing i long for, that i have longed for for the past 730 days. exactly 2 years today. can i go home now, i've asked that question so many times. but every time, i get an answer of no.

today i heard a shriek, mommy it came from the neighbor. she got ranned over by a car, mommy, and, even though i'm only 4, i know that her guts lying in the street means she's dead. honey, go to your room. i'll get the authorities. mommy, what's an auth... authori.... what you said? why do such important people have such big names? charles, we're checking you into the psychiatric ward as a result of questioning anything that has to do with important people.

Your bell, it rings in me like that one in that church bellfry with all the buildings and airplanes on the horizon. We ring together, two in one but destructive, destructive interference destroying our frequencies. The wavelengths are garbled with the exception of the radio waves playing through your heart into you wide open mouth. The tower of sound is rising from the ground like a zombie in the dankest tomb in the most desolate graveyard. It is rising with startling velocity, but she told me velocity has a direction. So I responded, "Is toward a heart a direction?" And I got a resounding "No!" and then the tower ceased to

she's gone in a mist with a crack snap, and then--- BOOM. i reminisce of the flowers and words taped to the paper that is my soul and they're gone the daisies and i love yous screaming from the void that is a break-up.

the shrill dull roaring whisper swimming up to my mouth working its way to deaf ears lifting the chains that once bound you to your own self-pity they go through the medium of which no one notices and attacks the hearts of millions of children who are the silenced and comforted by their mothers and the world stops. the silence; it's beautiful can the world please stop forever? to preserve this beauty? the world on fire is drenched in the rivers and oceans of the words being drained from the pencils, pens and blood of millions of children

she sees the mannequin hobbles toward the alley and hops past the window to avoid her reflection and the total eclipse of her inner beauty.