Migraine

Clamorous, the colours jar, spar and tumble, and each border between them makes my head crumble, and each movement I see with my gut.

I hear with an ear at the top of my spine, and noise bursts on out till it renders me blind, and each nerve fires sharp in the glut.

The smells, oh the smells! Dogs smell this well, and each goddamn smell clangs like a bell, all jive dancing swagger and strut.

Each brush of my skin is a din so alarming I’m certain the touch must surely be harming and I’ll look down and see that I’m cut.

There is dung, on my tongue, and I can taste in this faeces, the dead of the world, of every species, their filth and their grime and their smut.