Migraine

In the tummy Of gray matter A grinder of ghostly gushes Sends down A pulse, cunning, brutal and nutty And the skull’s Soft mass…………. Booty to desert vultures Pulling apart and tearing What not, nerves Otherwise steely, so to say But noodles…… To woodpecker.   The bulged torch’s ugly show Even the lamps dim—a cry One wishes for prolonged turn Of not dim voltage Of but total shut down For the light is oh! But so malicious.   And the bag of bunches alone Raises the voice, calls the pulse ‘Idiot’ Of the muscles at the neck Held in cage of cactus dry And the bullet’s spiky head Makes the eyes to bleed Yet the poor flow un traced Like a mosquito held in traffic mess.   The factory of jammed wheels Running poorly deep into the skull No pill or potion Satiates the lust of devil That ravishes the nerves Right at the square, Leaves undone the tattered skin Of not chest, but of brain, Makes fool of us For we rely on Doctor’s vague reason Yet they push their pills Deep into our poor stomach To grab our fee Poor Lot…………….   In nuisance, often I Pluck the hair out Till the bald head protests And I do burn my fingers On that hot plate Or often over that silently burning candle Yet into these eyes Stay a nail of pains   And in despair I do often Turn to music But the strings of my guitar Fail to find a tune And in hope I sip The hot coffee But in mug too big Yet no way The devil leaves   In utter lunacy Often I with trembled hands Begged for tranquiller But alas! No relief Till I bow before the Mighty God And weep bitterly And often the nose Leaves the space for the flow Like a traffic cob suddenly Appears in the mess And makes the wheels to move For the next episode What craftiness?