Hangover

A barely managed croak escapes from my parched throat 

as my fossilized tongue on which the aftertaste of bile still lingers

struggles to form the shapes required for speech

while my brain tormented by the tearing

pain that pulsates across it's membranous surface

attempts to summon the memories of the previous night

but is only answered by blankness and a whirling sensation

that cannot be ignored and is only surpassed

by the tempest raging in the cesspit of my gut

the repercussions of which is felt to the very tips

of my disembodied limbs that refuse to obey any command

following the resignation of my liver on the grounds of

an intolerable insurmountable indisputable workload

allowing nausea to run ruthlessly rampant

throughout the tortured tissues of my torso

like acid digesting the very fabric of my being

arousing waves of regret to wash over my conscience

all of which culminate in an overwhelmingly familiar experience

so characteristic of the aftermath of a great night had.