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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