My brain is lodged in the trash compactor,
unmoved by children’s Tylenol.
I stare, glassy-eyed, at a blank and patronizing screen
will I ever coax this contraption to do my bidding?
Saliva snags the back of my gullet, and travels like a barbed mouse through a snake.
Thick rivers of mucus dislodge all thought from rational moorings
and press angrily against the inside of my face.
One more attempt to form a sentence and I’ll erupt–
without Pliny to document my self-destruction.
3 thoughts on “Medicine Head”
Indian food and alcohol. I dare you.
Uff da. Pass.
So would I. Literally.