White Noise - A Poem In Prose

... so she wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and then in frenzied, frustrated zeal, tore and ripped and tore and shredded each mutinous page; wrote and scratched out and wrote again, and tore up sheets; knowing it was too little, or too much, or too intense, or too pale, or too real, or too fake; words wrenched from deep slumbering airways twisted out of shape: words squeezed out of a voice box mangled in a python's grip; she wrote and her life hung (swinging and creaking) on the words, (but never the right words: no matter what she wrote, never right!) bleeding from the nib (drip! drop! drip! drop!) onto the white pages; in a sickening race for, with, against, between, innocence and death; where the prize for winning was death; the sentence for losing was death; (death was in the soft, velvety folds upon folds upon folds of white noise, wrapping her around, muffling the mounds of pain for the smashed body of the lovely little rainbow bird plastered on her parquet floor): oh! the pain! wherever she sent her fluid mind, there it was; no respite, no escape; lurking in sullen corners; making the patterns on the floor shift and move and wriggle and swirl; squares vanishing into circles; tracing serpentine currents around the poor, ravaged wings spreading out in their own pattern, circling a smashed head, parted beaks, scattered feathers; the patterns crawled along the floor, creeping up the walls, twining and stretching up towards the ceiling, leering evilly down at her from their perch on the single glaring fluorescent lamp...

... and all the while, white noise grew from a tiny tinnitus in the ears, in stages to a thundering roar, rising higher, higher; tiny pebbles of panic piling up, mounting; drowning out screams of her own bleeding guts, shattered collar bones, her ripped out throat; her broken nose; vitreous humour trickling down her blackened sockets like runny eggs; her skull cracked open, until nothing but masses of black, matted hair floating, spreading out like giant seaweeds, waving just beneath the surface of rippling turquoise waters, (ripples yawning wider still and wider, until earth, sky and ocean flowed as one vast, pale, infernal limbo of lye) around her