Since psychiatry came to me,
I drool like a dog in my dreams.
Since psychiatry came to me,
I drool like a dog,
Even in my dreams.
Since psychiatry caged little old me,
Everything is even worse than it seems.
Since psychiatry was let loose on me,
Everything is just as bad as it seems,
Seems in my dreams.
They talk over me, even in my dreams,
'til I'm nearly bursting at the seems.
There is no use for screams...
Once there was a Christ-force that dwelt within,
Now grown pale and ghostly thin.
The kernel has been cored-out!
But it doesn't matter how we shout...
666/ 888.
The devil, the seducer of the world/
The Word, the prince of his own soul!
They're all the same - They're all gods.
They come from within,
Come over us like lightening,
When once we were men -
Not as concrete beings or voices talking in our ear, as they stupidly,
self-servingly assume;
On our subtler, yet loftier tongues
(We who imbue humanity with its proper dignity, which stretches to
the divine - which, in a sense, is itself man-made or man-killed..)
Such words bespeak impersonal, inner energies, activities
And potentialities -
Just as 'gravity' names an outer energy.
They are psychological principles or archetypes,
Not angels or demons in outward form, descending from the skies
which only we can see!
Why use such loaded terms, you say, such as 'angels on wing'?
Because they have poetic force...
And the spirit longs to sing !
Now we only have another type of electrical intercession to look
forward to.
What use is joyful rhyme against such contingencies?
In their mean eyes, a dance is a mere fit.
Meditation? An aberration..
To those seeking 'help' -
"Get out before you get caught, and lend a hand to those who
weren't so lucky."
For who will help them who need help (to flee) from their 'helpers' ?
Who can even see which way the earth truly revolves here, let alone
alter its agonizing axis?
I am just a toy, the least of creatures - begging, barking for dignity,
Dignity in defeat.
Like their forebearers, the priests and Inquisitors of old:
The shrinks have carved up my saviour for tea,
To be sold.
For the sake of their foolish feast -
A meal of vanity and greed -
They have even lobotomized The Beast.
Theirs is a religion stunted of both notion and emotion,
Its charisma is like a poorly made wax-work dummy,
Gauche and deathly cold, yet smooth in all its juvenile simplicity.
It would make you too into a mannequin,
An exemplary ticklist of outer inconsequentialities to set beside
every barren, burning soul.
For they care about only what they see, they see nothing important,
And all they do is smoke and mirrors. They never awoke.
Because,
Wherever there is a soul burning, MOST PEOPLE ONLY SEE THE
SMOKE!