On Hangovers and Robert Plant

My head and my lower back
have treacherously conspired
to form
one of the most formidable "fuck yous" I've experienced.

But I suppose it's only retaliation.
At least my stomach has decided against
unleashing it's arsenal
of guerrilla warfare techniques.

Worse yet --
I am involuntarily subjected to
Robert Plant screaming into my ear
like an air-raid siren
with the frequency shape of: a dagger
drenched in cyanide
buried in an elephant;
an elephant who is on fire.

This elephant escaped from the zoo of hell, apparently
(He did not enjoy the flame exhibit)
And is instead quite ironically riding atop
a fire truck painted in the most offensive
neon orange I have seen.

The fire truck is running over my head
and reversing repeatedly.

And how unfair is it that
even if I manage to escape
this inconsiderate truck,
I still have a fucking elephant in flames
to deal with?

And that is the shape
of Robert Plant's voice.

I can only hope that
he dies after nuclear winter when
all the radios are gone
and no one can commemorate him
like they did MJ.