I lob my head beyond its borders

here is a
 hot dry season
 cattle fodder scarce
 disease a risk

 circular procession of music
 around this brain
 dancing and chants
 led by priests
 torches and animals

 the procession circles three times

 I lob my head
 beyond its borders

 it scarpers heaped with what
 should have been done
 what should have been said

 I chase it
 catch it

 sprinkle my mind with sweet wine
 with bits of sacred cake
 made from flour and salt

 I stun it
 with an axe or mallet
 before I cut my thought’s throat
 disembowel it to ensure
 that there is nothing
 untoward about my
 idea’s entrails.

 burn my imagination’s
 vital organs
 on the altar

 cut into pieces
 and eat my carcass

 I am the priest
 wear a cloth over my face
 to shut out

 what my eyes
 will not be allowed to see

 say prayers,
 under my breath

 the procession ends

 it is cooler
 a little wetter

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