Buzzcut Silence

[Wjames]

Edit.

there are no voices in my head.
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream. interesting opener.

let's go on a rampage! This seems like something a "voice" in someone's head might say. Is that contradiction intentional (or am I just reading too much into this statement?).
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down. 
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?)

we're running away from whose we? narrator and the voices?
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.  This stanza doesn't really do much for me.

there are tall new yorky cities I don't like yorky, it doesn't fit in with the rest of the seriousness. I think just "new york cities" would work, new york can work as an adjective I suppose.
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

brain's been dry-cleaned, I like the oily paintings /oily clothes (or, in this case, brains) being dry cleaned.
ironed burning hot— nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute. More voices? That's the only thing I can think of this being.

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears This confirms that the narrator is in fact hearing voices in my reading, and trying not to hear them.
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily I presume you're cracking?

[[haven't changed much... i didn't want this to lose its intended freneticism. hopefully it's a bit clearer, but it wasn't my intention for this to become a straight-forward, to-the-point poem. still don't know if the title works, but i've got a better idea of what i want this whole thing to be.]]

Original.

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

Just my thoughts as I read the poem, my only real "critique" would be the yorky bit.

I'm very rarely a fan of titles which are inside of the poem, and that's the case with this one as well. Why not try and make a title that adds another layer to your idea?

I like the poem though, to me it seems like someone convincing themselves they aren't crazy (or, trying to). "There are no voices in my head" followed by a string of what I believe are thoughts by these non-existant voices is my reading.

Of course, with such an idea (if that was your intent), it's almost impossible to critique because any sort of nonsense could just be these voices.

You do need to be careful though, if there's too much, it can just descend in to chaos so this poem walks a fine line (I think you're close to the edge).