You want a braincut
A trim
A little off the bottom
To lift your mood.
You can't see the mirror
As the barber starts to cut.
He starts at the bottom
But then he looks at the rest
What a mess!
Then he trims back the top
And he shaves smooth the sides
And he leaves you a thin strip of brain
A circlet
A brainlet
A strangely slipped tonsure meeting itself in the middle.
And he beams at you as he hands you the mirror.
You're fixed! You're done!
Have a great day!
All of your thinking
All that you can think of you and be and are
Collide in that tight little band of brain function.
Your mood is lifted but it's gutted and twisted and now even outrage is too big for the brainlet.
You can manage a distant sadness for a loss that you can't quite understand.
Because you've lost the ability to understand your loss.
But the rich fighting self that remains underneath
screams at the horror of it all.
So you don't tip the barber too generously on the way out to wherever it is that you don't know you're going.
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