Mushtaque Barq | + Follow Poet |
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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?

Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013

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