Syndrome (re-mix)

The brain had elected itself Judas, sleazy loud with silver jangling

In this grand guignol of new and quickly old concussion

Limbs roasted themselves to occult temperatures

Yet remained whitely chilled under air that strove to rub, scrape, signify

Thoughts chased themselves till they forget why they could run

Randomised into particles of passion and pain

A small bed-bound Jesus crucified by nerve endings

Twitching was sporadic, evidence of breath in throes of misfiring ideas

Head heard Monk, The Bird, at duel, with strange violins at intermissions

Cracking against the neurones and Dura like a blind vision made palsy

Sitting, sat, shutting out the all that was not within, blinking against brain

Misshapen words extruded upon a rogue tongue

Glossolalia for village idiots to divine the profane

Nothing of worth but heroic under effort

After the storm this ship was shattered with nary a rock visible

Heaving after hours, a sprawled birthing of both saint and sinned upon

Whore of metaphysics, drained by the Johns, now smithed into wet nothing

Alcohol verboten, still ju-ju juice for salvage

As Jack baffled the more nefarious symptoms and bearded any lion's mania

This before the dreams, triggering stream sweat like incense

And the day began somewhere far from this wasted being-ness

Rem-sleep running SOS semaphore behind wild, silent-movie lids.