nighttime emissions and sublimated humiliation fantasies

i had a sickening dream, after i woke but before i rose. on dusty recliner with wooden arms and itchy hounds-tooth cushions, a frog slid tadpoles straight from a gash running from throat to tail. it had not been cut, it had only opened to birth them. it had always been there. on the chair a snake wriggled around with the frog. it wanted to eat them all. the frog fought and the blind babies squirmed away, but the snake ate them anyway. it was a slimy sight. i had descended from a tower, perched on a church's rust-streaked green dome, where i clutched to the surface on sticky octopus suckers with street-kids, where i had been safe. but, of course, the world ordains the things you must witness.

not to diminish the dreams i have had of you lately. no. you no longer chase me in soothing loops round escher staircases, our ability to move expanded to bounding many-storied leaps, the cartilage in our knees extra-strengthened pillows. now. oh now. you crack the bones in my wrists between your thumb and forefinger and i turn your skin to ribbons with a bowie knife. i cover you in hair, force it to grow everywhere, including the soles of your feet. you un-piece me by a pond full of sucking mud and throw my bits in to be watched over by the trees. in front of your elementary school, i walk behind you invisible, whispering the truths of your grown up self into your ear as you move to the double doors and you are so ashamed. you are hot-faced but you can't cry in social studies and language arts.

my daydreams are pure avoidance. "i am living my best life." audiences with princelings and me in a plexiglass box, lit under with LEDs, dancing to mint royale on repeat for eighteen hours, probably high, probably wearing knee socks, probably wearing a t-shirt dress with some lazy illuminati-based design (triangles no doubt, even though i've always felt better about squares), probably losing momentum, until i'm too exhausted to take home anyone who might have chanced a look. too tired to feel the hand on my face until after it's left a bright red palm print there.

crickets, new hamshire

screaming, car brakes, creaking spires.
disintegration has noises that have no place to go
they ricochet off walls at random--one enters my window
where, like a spider hungry, i wait
once eaten i say i have disintegrated
now and again under and over these sounds
i havent seen any of your faces in quite a long time
tell me where i am:
silence.
ill ask a stranger
instead.