White Heat

I swear I used to have a brain in here
But now it's all congealed into a lump
So that I cannot think. The merest rump
Of cogitation has remained, to steer
This body and to write down these unclear
Few lines. Would that this were a mental slump,
A discombobulation, or a dump
Of inner excrement - that might be queer,
But it would self-correct. No, this is more,
My mind has melted into merest mush,
And all the kinks and wrinkles it possessed
Have been eradicated and suppressed
So even if it refroze from this slush
It would not be the same. Melted inside
It's much the same as if my brain had fried.