forty-eight hours of bed-rotting,
gaseous ideas building up in my temples,
my kingdom for a trepination to relieve to pressure.
mood? cumbersome like some albatross,
sinewy and wet upon my back.
i want a revelation, a donk on my crown
to dislodge all the things unwelcome in my home,
my head, my eyrie, crags filled with the garbarge 
that would make a hoarder blush.
i wait, and nothing comes to save me.
but the incessant sound of my own breath,
perhaps my ego could use it to obfuscate itself
and give me a break. these are my thoughts
mollusk parasites on my bark,
beaten endlessly against the sea