Mysticism. The revolt
of the soul
against the intellect.
William Butler Yeats
Like mice studying to be ratspsycho
analysts: hubris, refrigerated.
Good doctors, they, of the clammy
hands & tingleless spinesarchangels
of man's only hope for salvation:
You declare: A bit much.
Which brings us round to the beginning
brings us round to the end:
a faceful of ego,
a plateful of id.
Cold Mother. Gold Father. Time's up.
Get to bed.