Headache

My head hurts. I can't concentrate

because the great brass bell

of thought is spinning wildly

through the contours of gray matter

landing on nothing but pain receptors

making their bedraggled way down my

neck, shoving my head forward

into the future; a grimy stressful prospect

encumbered with weighty cucumber

decisions, growing and growing,

greener and greener, until the fruit

needs picked. Clang! Clang!

My brain shifts in its skull case,

moving right to left, leaving filthy

rusted imprints on the insides

of my eyes, that are popping out, ready

to implode upon the sucking vibrations -

the necklace fabric situations that make

up the sorry sad days of late autumn

windiness. It's too dark and my heart

burns listening to the sarcastic palatial

edifices of language spinning around the

hallway, landing dead on the sandpaper

carpet. Time out, as I retreat into shocking,

gut-wrenching emotion, moving the air

in pitch and swiftly, my head to the past.