The Auras

Someone has threaded a string of beads,
using a needle and white-hot wire, tugged
through my optic nerve, to make
a pulsating necklace. Light rides
the Big Bang towards me, wielding a knife
of cauterising pain, its blade
one photon wide, precise.

    *    *    *

Ninth migraine this month. In my cave
I cower from noon’s brain-piercing light.

I’m Eve, cover my face to blot
out the angel’s laser sword. But I’ve seen
such sights.

    *    *    *

That rogue, Robert Graves, located
the floating islands of Celtic legend
in the brain of a migraineur. Atlantis explodes; that flash
in the visual cortex’s pan is Avalon. A privilege?
...