let's name them, the Ps:
the priests, the psychologists...
the psychiatrists... the police...
the politicians... the philosophers...
the poets... the prostitutes...

what a nice bunch of people...
the priests? shadow moral authority -
good for one thing: pandering oysters...

the psychologists?
well... they do really prescribe
medicated verbiage, don't they?
suddenly words have
to become the cure-all mantras...
words are supposed to, heal,
they are supposed to take
on some transcended
purpose - with meaning in tow -
yet all that rhyming:
sticks and stones make break
my bones...
but words will not hurt me... sure...
but can words still be fathomed
in that medium of translation?
i.e. red = red? snake = snake?
or... are the screws loose,
for some reason, or, other?

psychiatrists? oh, those guys...
the pharma sweeties dispensers...
penny sweets, bubble-gum galore...
most of the drugs are bitter...
we're talking... ale bitterness...
you might sleep, you might not...
you might come out a zombie...
you might not...
psychiatrists are like psychologists...
only that the latter do no dispense
pharmacological recreational
drug taking... drugs with either
placebo or minimal sedative effects...

no wonder the opiate crisis...
before a psychiatrist will start talking
he already has a dose for you...
and i'd like to think of psychologist
as the new secular priests...
"negative thinking"?
"suicidal thoughts"?
what?! everyone is immortal all
of a sudden?
no one thinks about death,
even in that warped speeding
depth analysis of suicide?
everyone thinks about death in
that quest for old age and dementia?
no one thinks about death?
death is somehow supposed
to hit you with a spectacular immediacy
of a surprise / of a sudden?
death is never the slow-rot
tumor your brain is supposed
to accommodate?
death is supposed to be something
foreign, and your mortality has
nothing to do with it?

wow! what rainbow pills are you on,
herr doktor?
my shadow is a credit system...
it's death waiting...
not to sound overly morbid...
but you can sometimes find yourself
woken in the middle of a night
by your shadow being detached
from your body...
standing from behind something,
usually glass... peering at you as you sleep
like a c.c.t.v. pole with added
state sponsorship...

the police? i pray for the chance to interact
with these fuckers...
handcuffed in the alley for pissing
onto garbage...
pulled from the alley, handcuffed...
screamed at,
everything was noted on paper...
get up! get up! i was kneeling and said:
you'll have to make me,
this and that happened to me...
it literally took 4 police officers to detain me...
i lost my virginity to handcuffs that night...
a few minutes passed as i, clearly,
wasn't intimidated by the screaming...
so they uncuffed me...
bigger fish to fry... i walked out the alley
giggling...
oh... and that one time i was alcohol poisoned...
stepped off the bus and did a
pancake onto the concrete at the bus stop...
timber! timber! laid unconscious
for god knows how long...
some pedestrian alerted the police...
that was the night i lost my virginity
to riding a police van (culprit cage and all)
home like i might have wished
for a taxi cab... a police van as a taxi...
well... there's a first for almost everything...

the politicians...
those whale-shaped clouds in the sky?
that Westminster is... the psychiatric term for:
castles in the sky?
career politicians... i can't begin to fathom
how detached these people are...
perhaps they could congregate in a parliament...
or in an insane asylum... point being:
could you tell the difference?
students of rhetoric...
that's all that matters... rhetoric...
if you can blah blah your way through
wednesday's prime-minister's question?
you're sorted...

the philosophers... as long as they are not alive...
do not hold stakes in radio...
and they're german...
but they have to be dead...
i cannot even begin to fathom my disdain
for the diluted material of the modern written-,
everything has to be diluted...
nothing is a custard-fuck-thick of the old
version of systematology...
aren't there too many points of "conversation"...

poets? well... the tone of voice...
exasperation... everthing has to be this almighty:
critical state of effairs...
the heart as a balloon about to burst...
or... the haiku-quips...
i hate the haiku-quips...
long before the narration starts...
it ends...
you feel like eating a slice of bread...
the poets think you're a mouse
and the crumbs will do...
and you're supposed to be satisfied with
the little that they give...
sigh with awe! de profundis!

prostitutes...
i had to check... i checked with the psychologists...
i checked with the psychiatrists...
i decided to take some of their happy-pills...
fuck it, why not...
i might have checked with the priests...
but by then... my ass wasn't a tender plum
to be preached to by the lesser tongue
of the wardrobe...

aha... where touch is involved...
talking... well, the tips of your fingers
do the talking to the ear
of the collar bone...
to the ear of the hair...
to ear of the eyebrows
and of the nose...
and to the tulips of the lips...
prostitutes...
of the major Ps of authority?
could... sure... a priest in a nasty way...
a police officer if you have a fetish
for violence...

smack you a puppet on the face...
i still don't know how i managed
to wrestle that can of beer with him...
but... he did give me a map...
where i could drink in public afterwards...
not near the pubs on weekend nights...

the priests, the psychologists, the psychiatrists,
the police, the politicians, the philosophers...
the painters, the poets... the prostitutes...

what is / rather what isn't a night to spare?
tabloid verbiage spew on my behalf...
written for a critic?
isn't everything? you'd have to settle
a session with all of them in the P, category...
to try to find in yourself:
something that... wouldn't exactly
work with the chinese social credit system...
any damn chance to speak
with the body and hush the ego...

staring eye contests bordering on
being under water of cross-eyed
with the tips of the noses touching...
itching / teasing lips...
the cranny below the lower lips
and above the chin...

what you speak to a prostitute about...
you'd have to speak in either
braille or sign-language to a psychologist;
i hardly think they'd understand
the language of mirgating hands
and tender tips of the fingers...
what soul is there to be healed:
when there's no body to be simultaneously
touched - outside the sterile
medical environment of butchery
and the anaesthetic?