Head Pains

Low sung sang low.
The see saw saw a sore jig
pattering out patterns
on the wet, stained floor.
Deep tones wafting
hit the rafters
and the place remains upright
although not for long.
See saw batters holes
in the carpet
stains it, strains teabags
in your child eyes.
In your child songs typed out.
Singing low.
The jig jiggles cells
which shake in your lip reflections
in your shining lip reflections
which leave us violated
on the floor.
Long black trails
of trailing matter follow.
My lines get shorter
in an ode to your sorrow.