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.

Jon Stone