Mayhem at The Fingertips

Sharp things rolling down across my teeth
If it slipped
It clipped
I wince at the thought.
Jagged little terrors grasp at my spine
Reddened eyes
Flick, flick
Metal corner caught in my fingertips
Like mesh on a zipper
Split and lacerated
Free flying
Raining down in cinnabar
Powdered pepper
Stinging
Grit my glass against my gums
Wreck the fingers slice the thumbs
But don't
It just gets in my head
It just sticks in my head
Rattling
Chancing
But them dices is loaded
Those dice don't play fair.
Bounce bounce
They tinker-tack
Leaving little migraine bulls eyes  
On every which bit of the dome
Pouring out later
In cinnabar rain
On the roof's shingles
At a little New England farmhouse.