Old School
spoiled dreams of teary patients,
unleashed vitriol, sexual or
infantile, and such exceeding
parental hate --
it gnaws on his own defenses
to break theirs, chafes his super-ego
to endure the labyrinths
of melancholic counterfeit --
lie after lie,
webs of tentacles which
tense as tight as they can
to deflect the agony of insight;
to shield the tender ravages
of some wrecked childhood,
cradled dear and fulsome,
deep inside memory’s womblike
nest.
the Id,
always a demonic glare
from its half-psychotic eyes,
which never reach the surface,
even when the last mask falls away,
dissolved and desolate.
how do i see that glare? he wonders.
it’s as if a pus of evil
crammed the sinuses of the human brain:
accumulated cannibalisms and
much worse perversions,
lascivious and incarnadine,
the whole of it striving to pretend
behind teddy bears and lullabies.
is every desire so retrograde? he wonders.
do the curved plates of the human skull,
of necessity beyond cure,
embody some thorny bassinet?
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