notes on writing a poem when you can't think of a title

I had a dream
but for all I know it was another
lifetime ago,
and it leaves me with feelings undefined
with welts on my back from an unknown
assailant, my discipline is slow,
turning over and over
inside my uneasy grave,
I am dizzy, faint with the loss of blood
going to and fro my misplaced head,
as if taken out of context
and plucked from a three-dimensional
cardboard reality

as if I were carrion of every known experience
now awakening
in a torture chamber that looks much like the Sistine Chapel,
paint dripping from the ceiling, nails flying off the walls,
the floor oozing a spiral galaxy,
stargazer lilies permeate the air,
I hear a song about Jesus being a sailor
sung by a seagull swooping down
with these words:

"There's feathers sticking from your ears, eyes and lips,
your hair is plaited with wagging tongues
your hunger is rising with the sun
be not concerned, Cariad
you haven't killed the songbird,
you're just learning to fly and
sometimes when the moon is full
it takes three days
to write a poem."