bedlam boy

dark condenses finely upon
each object in the room the
psychiatrist’s stare is his
conclusion

I
am a true bedlam boy a
waste of his DSM mysticism
administered & urging my brain on
toward cheerful banality some
pedestrian evenness where
razorblades offer their blue innocence
like a child’s simple grin

meanwhile I
am thinking of a
garden wet & dark with
unreliable night
wrapping round pointless paths &
kept by a great wooden gate

spider waits all
eight-eyed upon
her coiled labour for the
food chain to draw taut round
a buzz of blind protein the
near disaster of broken silk the
tickle & panic the

psychiatrist scribbles on
creating more artefact with my
name upon it he
looks up at me then
scribbles more while

somewhere there’s a
highway a
cigarette commercial a
convertible with a well vetted woman riding
shotgun he’d
rather be with than
me in this room but
there are profession & possession & the
dewy garden at dawn he
hasn’t considered

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