some of today’s migraine, defined:

The vertebrae jacket goes to coat check. A woman accepts it with wrists stunted by talons, iridescent nails like blue orb like moon, cataracts. Her clavicle boasted speakeasy for insect eggs. High pitched tines, as if on plate, stunt the crowd noise. Two palms to your ears. Ladies and gentlemen, be still the drums. Our guest of honor enters.

A fire in heels, the arsonist’s wet dream. Stale shotgun hit for the recovering, their fortnight reached. A thorn carrying a switch blade makes the incision. The mark is noted at the base of the page, the edge of room near the outlet. By toothpick stretched, lifted and ripped. Sheets of it gone(pair of fingers grip nose bridge).

The kind of infamous that demands you dance. You will never lead. One rotting hand braces your back, presses you close to the light roaring–you close your eyes and try to feel it. For minute, a rhythm. What do we replace this with? Immobility? Arsenic on the air? The lips are gone. the hair is danger. The limbs shake like loose socket bark(the steady death of trembling birch beneath it). How do I say I disappear? How do I say what? A knocking door, a platelet.

Swoon the dear by faking night–pull the shade and dim the world. She screams through old stand-bys(you flip the record and it does not help). The chattering, the chattering–the loop and loop of gnawing tines. Send no letters. In fact, eat your pens. This way you will not be tempted. Pull the tornado to your chest. Whisper the usual:
Rest, you monster. Let me hold you close and hate you.

written because i’m sick of being sick.