The Marxist Psychoanalyst

for Mental

The Appearance of Getting Laid

I could not sleep in her bed,
I would hear the rattle of her depression medication
Across the hall, as I lay there, anticipating her return.
And then in the morning I would go back to where I did not live,
And the sound of birds would be somehow offensive.

No Material Lullaby

When you’re starving food is like a fix,
And shelter is the same way
But when you inflict a gap of alienation
In the social order; and hijack
The will to live with drugs,
And other commodities; you train
A nation not to give a shit
About each other,
A nation of freedom-loving slaves.
Your freedom in this sense
Is merely that ability
Not to give a shit.
Desirous of more of that, we
Thank God for that legally-sanctioned high.

The insomnia haunted me like the memory of a ghost
I’ve convinced myself didn’t exist during the day,
But which comes back around right on schedule.
The loops it throws us into,
And the loops it denies us
Critically capitalism you are an invasion
Of our sense of control,
You make us desire the freedom of your domination.
Won’t you lull me to sleep;
There is always something behind your magic shelves
That can do the trick.
When what is keeping me awake
Is simply the spell you’ve put me under
That makes one a maniac to buy things.

Act Now

Three dollar afternoon
A bit like a Happy Meal
A quart of Miller High Life.
Takes me back to slumlord dwellings
And a cheap meal first thing in the afternoon.
Alleyway couches, bottles were relics,
The girl I knew was suspended for putting a lighter to one
During a block party.
My friend she went to school with lost his mind,
Like my former roommate had the quarter before him.
These were the glorious days of the opioid epidemic,
Youngsters dying, or getting shackled with student debt.
They’re compelled to tell you “2 for 5?”
Just like “Would you like fries with that?”
As if you were getting a “deal.”
Sometimes more is less.