a phenomenology of migraine

look there’s a blind spot

not really blind

not a spot like an ink blot

but I can’t make out

what’s really there

like a drop of water

on my glasses

it’s only small

like forgetting to buy an avocado

or a touch of arrogance

that no one else would notice

but it’s bloody well there

right at the core of things

and expanding slowly

like a melanoma

or dementia

there’s a ziggy flickering starting

along the C edge

I retract the melanoma

replace it with a cornfield burn-off

flames licking outwards

you will have to excuse me

pause your problems

frayed my focus is shot

too many metaphors

no similes

what the hell

lightning all around

even through closed lids

go away I’m bunkered

a rumbling grumbling thundering

from a woofer pulsing in the dome

full vision like new grass

re-covers the blackened land

and the mindself

finds its way back

while I sleep rough

Shrapnel of the Age

Don’t knock technology you precious Boomer

with stents to hold your options open

pacemakers to keep you up with the beat

lenses to enhance your critical eye

and aids to stop the youngsters mumbling

there’s mesh to hold in your sags and bulges

titanium screws for your shattered dreams

ceramics and polymers, silicon and wires

your teeth capped and crowned for a royal smile

so don’t give us all that natural bullshit

carry with pride the shrapnel of the age.

An old mirror from the hospice shop

You have seen so many faces hiding so much humanity, heavy, burdened, your glass sharp, clear in intent to speak truth to light, giving only reflective counsel, insight to those who would see for themselves. But your oak frame has darkened, cracked under interrogation, wearied of bearing witness to the toll light takes as time ticks by, and I ask myself what I see in you, and are you likely to see me through.