The Marxist Psychoanalyst

for Mental

The Monument

When the community seems to look on
One like a prison guard to an inmate,
Your old bed feels like a hotel
And you know you’re on sacrificial land;
That is sterile with money and judgment.
When you left your bags packed for three years
And the amount you’ve changed is staggering
to the degree that no one thinks you do anything.
When the world has always been this insane
but it’s you who’re scorned for life-long
Defiance, the cold land gives you
Only disdain like a father.
The one who somehow started it
And yet couldn’t even tie his shoes
When fear was born


When did the recognition of a kindred spirit
Get warped through the short-circuitry of fear,
Because in twenty-first century capitalism the only
Meaning available to us is paranoia.
We are living in times when holding a blank piece of paper
As the mere suggestion of a protest sign,
Can see one detained.
The clear crisis we should all fight back against
Is as obscured by propaganda
It’s like a virus of consciousness.
How much are you propaganda like a psychic wound
Akin to a governing disorder?
How much are you social order the infliction of this wound,
The narratives of this propaganda driving
Its psychotic reproduction?
My synapses are as tied to your billboard
As a naked body, across a desolate beach,
Littered with refuse.
My environment is the historical context in which
You’ve stranded our species
Like a doomed expedition into the void of the cosmos.
How could a world so crowded with the teeming space of life
Be afflicted with an epidemic of loneliness?
And the answer is
Of course because of you.

The Loneliness of a Hangover

One so desires to be all right
They trigger excessive doubts in the brain.
And heart, why do you doubt that your very beating is good,
To where you ratchet that up
And fear becomes the dominant emotion?
We need not feel inadequate about ourselves
If the society conformed to our desires,
Rather than the other way around.
By letting go,
I have reminded myself,
That when I do,
There is no one there who can actually lend me a hand
When we, inevitably, fall.
Like dancing alone;
Or trying to perform a play,
By one’s self,
To an audience of me only.