Inducing a Migraine

there she is behind the marked oak bar, that Irish angel with the black hair falling like midnight rain, serving up the warmest smile you ever saw, pulling a perfect pint, slow and creamy, her eyes shining like some ancient goddess, yes, like Dionysus himself in drag, pouring out the madness.

red wine flowing free now, warm in the throat, thick as blood, glass after glass, plentiful, oh Christ yes, and in my skull the most beautiful shapes start blooming, twisted cathedrals of colour, toxins racing the holy gasoline, vodka, dirty slammers, racing, racing through the old bloodstream, bam, bam, vividness of childhood exploding—buses on the Bellavista road in Turffontein, my grandmother’s apron, the Limpopo rolling black under the moon—like the Creation itself, Genesis on fire, space and time blowing apart, normality gone, easy breathing now, floating in the sweet red haze.

and then it slams in hard, my old pal, the aura migraine, sweet Jesus, the lights zigzagging like jazz trumpets across the ceiling, metal taste flooding the tongue, copper pennies and lightning—how it surges, surging through the veins like a thousand marching feet pounding along the tight skin of a dry bass drum in some club at 3 a.m.

into the eyes it crawls, teeth aching electric, cheeks numb and buzzing, then pitches on relentless, no mercy, each new throb around the temples a hammer blow, no pause, not even a lull to catch a moment so he can think about the madness of the session, this deliberate recipe I cooked up—booze and no food and staring at the bare bulb—for pain and inspiration both, downhill from here, straight downhill into the pit.

and then the final tranche hits, sweat pouring, stinging the eyes like salt tears of the saints, head hung low over the bar rail to slow the spinning world, the hard endless beat, beating, no spit left in the mouth, tongue like leather, the immaculate descent into the black nothing.

I will remember nothing in the morning, nothing but the ghost throb and the taste of wine turned to rust, and I’ll be back on the stool by noon, chasing the same god again.

damaged, no control,
and life’s grim misconceptions,
plague me endlessly.