I Can’t Stop Thinking

There’s a tap in the back of my head.
Like a dripping leak no one can fix, and the thought I meant to catch
goes skidding into the air, its arms flailing, into the ditch of half-formed lists.

What was I… Never mind.
There’s a person in my brain reciting trivia, about oceanic krill and polar bears.
The structural integrity of Victorian bridges. Brunel, he built bridges, lots of them, still standing today.
I think he’s stuck in my left hemisphere, that’s an interesting word. Please shut up.

What should I add to the shopping list? If I buy this, will I remember where I hid it?
The cous cous, I’d forgotten about, still in date. How long does a tin of beans last past the sell by date?
When will I reach my sell by date? That went long ago, with a scream, a shout, rarely a whisper.
The noise never stops, continually asking questions that can’t be answered.
I think, therefore I am. Chatty, you’d call it. Irritating, I call it.

A song gets stuck, on the chorus. I hum it into my mug of coffee, wondering if it’s clean
or only air-dried, germs silently crawling on the lip.
My brain scratches behind my eyes, like it wants an escape, a focus, a task, it’s rattling my bars,
it’s not just hungry, it is starving.

I make a note. Feed the brain something useful. Delete Twitter, don’t read the comments,
ignore the man on the train arguing with his reflection.
But he’s right, you know, about the pigeons and the conspiracy in the cereal aisle.
A pigeon sits on the roof across the road. I worry about the pigeons when they fly over me.
Do they have bird lice? Do they shed germs or worse, bacteria?
I think we’re all going to die from my concocted infections. No medical science involved.
Call me an expert on propaganda. I’ll give everyone this poison, drink up, drink in, drown in it.

There’s dust on the skirting board. I stare at it like it will answer me back.
Forever feeding me conspiracies. Motes like stars, dead skin, and old intentions breaking down.
They say to ground yourself, feel your feet, touch wood, count five things.
But the ground shifts, my feet tell lies, and I’ve touched too many things in sequence.
Contaminated, I have to wash my hands, again.
Somewhere, a siren. I hear it in my teeth.
An ambulance or the end of the thoughts in my head?