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| The Neurologist by Jose Perez (Oil on Canvas) |
A Summons for Cephalalgia
You sneak in during the middle of the night
thinking I might not notice or mind
like you've got carte blanche
to walk in unexpected, uninvited
You bastard
I've got your number
I've been held by the grip of your vice
countless times
hostage to your beastly manner
I ignore you
You bastard
You hum, warble in my ear
as I search for the dagger and venom
sharp elixir and vapor
with which I might slay you
For you are a mere illusion
that hurts
You bastard
I see you laugh under your breath
as you slowly turn the crank, Screw you
Forcing me to retract the insouciance I feint
as I lose control of the ship
Spiraling among white beams
and bubbly charcoal floaters
In a lugubrious, colorless, merciless sea
to the throbbing beat of your pulse
Fuck you
You bastard
I'd hoped it was for good
Otherwise, there'd be a call
For something more effective
(than the ENT's feckless aresenal of pills)
Like a restraining order
Or a hit man
Contracts being my specialty
I'd scribe one immediately
if I could keep the light for a spell
to faintly see where you might sign
The agreement, including, but not limited to
conditions precedent
like prodrome and aura
so I might have fair warning
That my mind is in imminent danger
of being hijacked
by your suffocating hand, your persistent drone,
your deeply encoded paroxysms of pain
You bastard
Your time will come.
AND now, a love song...
John Darnielle, a former psychiatric nurse, writes some of my favorite short stories. And then he sets his revealing, expressive narratives to music, and sings them with The Mountain Goats (or solo). His sometimes morose, but always witty and snarly lyrics prompt smiles and reflection, with no shortage of eye winking.
All Eternals Deck (2011) is the band's latest release.
And from Get Lonely (2006):
You can find more on Darnielle here. Now, about that phone call...
(In the event you are wondering... No, the Friday Night Frolic will not become a forum for scrubby, lamebrained, habitual poetry—though I do enjoy serious and not so serious poems. The fragmented stanzas of poetry, in my case, lends itself to fits of cephalalgia, whereas the narrative is an arduous prospect during bouts of lamebrainitis. )
