Psychoanalect    

Mysticism.  The revolt of the soul
against the intellect.
—William Butler Yeats

Like mice studying to be rats—psycho
analysts: hubris, refrigerated.

Good doctors, they, of the clammy
hands & tingleless spines—archangels
of man's only hope for salvation:
                 
                           fairy tales.

You declare:  A bit much.


     Oh?


Which brings us round to the beginning
     which
brings us round to the end:

a faceful of ego,
a plateful of id.
Cold Mother.  Gold Father.  Time's up.

Get to bed.