When your brain’s nothing but a kitchen in havoc –
when the black padlock rattles but will not spring open –
when a sour sauce edges each spoonful of thinking –
when the cellar reels cavernously in all directions –
when it’s chilly in the catacombs –
when the flower you picked lies crushed between pages –
when you’ve begun young and gone grey half way –
when the lazy queue minks right to the moon
and the swamp’s toxicity makes your Geiger tick cricketishly –
when your meters are gaga, licking their faces blank –
when the decibel pep of your song’s turned to static –
when you’re drawn, quartered! Bought up! Thwarted!
Oh toss the lot in a blistery pot, with your tears for salt.