( or also entitled : Just How Much ******* Are You Prepared to Believe)

Confidence - grandiosity
Hope - Delusion
Ambition - grandiosity + delusion
Love - Co-dependency
Unrequited Love & romantic hopes - Erotomania
Sexuality - Hypersexuality
Happiness - Manic mood
Sadness - Depression
Shock - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Emotional - Bipolar
Fear - Paranoia/psychosis
Distrust - Suspicion ( e.g paranoia)
Loneliness - Neediness
Needing connection to others - Co-dependant
Existential doubts - suicidal
Spiritual awakening - psychosis
Sarcasm - Aggression
Loner - socially-withdrawn
Messy - self-neglectful
Angry - dangerous/violent
Faith - dangerous Religisiosity
dubious combination
of some of the above : Schizophrenia

Note : All of these need drugs to 'cure' them so the drugs companies can make a fortune & pay you a premium. Where did you think the money for your salary came from?

So just how much *******
are you prepared to believe?

Lets see, take a seat
we've got half an hour

or maybe even better
you're locked up

at my mercy
& my team

are giving you drugs
for a diagnosis

I've given you
before we've even talked

& hopefully the drugs
are curing you of life, love, hope

& any despair you're feeling
at being stuck here

what's that?
you've ballooned in weight?

all you do is sleep?
your feet are turning inward?

You're nearly diabetic?
Your hands are always shaking?

I'm shrinking your
unwanted little brain?

A small price to pay
for the promise of freedom

my little puppet
on a string

lets see just how much
******* we can make you believe

I'll make you say it
' I'm ill'

or I'll never let you out
it's just my little whim

you're one of the chosen few
whose life will be shattered in two

kiss goodbye to your emotions
What? You're angry? That's atrocious.

You are dangerous
it's good we locked you up

and what?
You say you're in love?

sheer Erotomania, my dear
we will cure it, never fear

Talking of fear,
I'd say you have paranoia

MHM, Psychosis,
that's right, Momma

Happiness is mania
Sadness is depression

having said that,
you'll hopefully want to **** yourself

after our little session
to confirm my treatment of you

I'm an expert
I've got a degree in *******

no-one has ever
dared to say I'm wrong

so don't you start
I do, you know have a heart

& it beats only for me
so if you want to be free

you'd better **** it up
& suffer

ever watched that film
hostel (Eli Roth, 2005)...
and then...
watch the video
by lindsay shepherd:
the ****** string
enthusiast of british
columbia?

no?
i guarantee you
it's worth a night to
remember...

also, when i was in Poland
and i took my
grandmother to
hospital,
i went outside
the hospital for a cigarrette
only to be approached
by a man
who told me of his
emigration experience
after Poland
joined the E.U.,
in England,
of all places...
working the conveyor
belt of a recycling
center...

what did i hear?
oh, you know...
how he used
to sieve through the plastics,
the papers, the tin cans,
and find ******,
or the miscellaneous
of *** other toys...

bag them,
wash them back home
in a bath...
pack them...
and sell them in
*** shops
back in Poland
"as if" unused...

my *******
practices?
quiet... sterile...
i wish this story
just came akin to:
a cat in a bag...

the conveyor belt guy
simply assumed
that the British
were hyper-******:
erotomania...

i guess...
i noted the same observation
with regards to
h. p. lovecraft...
or any other anglo-saxon...
the hyper-inflated
dream-world,
or, rather:
    why do the anglo-saxons
dream such elaborate dreams,
most of my dreams are
welcomes trivialities,
i honestly prefer
the sleep, minus
the elaborate world-craft
inverted delusion of:

no one really considers
dreams as equivalent
to hallucinations...
but they are a form of
hallucination...
so... in the safety of
the lab. of the unconscious:
you can dream...
but waking hour deviances
are... prohibited...

ever watched that film
hostel (Eli Roth, 2005)...
and then...
watch the video
by lindsay shepherd:
the ****** string
enthusiast of british
columbia?

i find the encompassing
"character"
by the latter,
to be the minion
entombed in the case
of the former...

well... we are living in
a world that's:
post-homosexuality is taboo:
who knows what
was smuggled in
and ascribed the vanguard
orthodoxy of
the abolished asylum...
schizophrenics?
what? those docile
bonkers wanderers?

  oh, i wouldn't be
too afraid of them...
they're the lethargic
gatekeepers of
cruises,
anticipating a sunset
on the glittering glitz
edge of an ****,
in a Beijing dumpling...

when the world goes
to the *******,
why even play O Fortuna?!
it is always a worthy
cause to celebrate:
the total ****-up
of it all...

               yes...
the anglo-saxons are plagued
by erotomania...
which subsequently
spurs them
to excessively dream;

i guess the architecture
of the phallus
needs to promote
an incubation
    of the form in a "more"
meaningful guise:
veiled by dream,
contorted by
     the sanctity of all
that is science, and all
that, unearthed from
the precursor stages
of pseudo-,
becomes the wisdom
of the mob...

             quasi:
sort-of,
but by the general
concensus: by god:
we will charge,
and stomp and...
make it our...
   pathetic...
in the old days
the eunuchs were walking
******...
the favorites of
the harem were impregnated...
the rest: m'eh...
in need of a *****,
since the king walrus
has no blue pill
back then...

but who would have
thought, that these eunuchs
became the castratos!

- never you mind...
the genre of horror
reiterates...
what i have just seen.

i just read your poem Anne
about your desolated masturbations
after you fell through
into that atomized monoxide
dream of pantomimes glittering
vague shapes and black holes
where slumber sinks
and silence rolls

we couldn't follow
you into your
receding suicide labyrinth
of timeless echoes
past those dire meadows
of serpentine fires
and shrouds you saw
where life eclipsed
by cosmic law

so i read you
one of my black little pieces
of erotomania
headless Barbie ejaculations
all Marquis De Sade
shadow fantasies
of dead play toe tag
and spilt milk
kisses' true
under Habeas Corpus
sweet dead you

you made me giggle
like jumping jellybeans  
and *** honey
I'm so glad you liked it
and your cute comment
about how my poem
made love to you
like multi chromed
teensy weensy
**** candy throat ticklers
at a careless Halloween party
where everything forbidden
in troves
is hidden by the hidden


how you loved
dancing with Night-gaunts
from temples of the astral
past those incessant ruffling whispers
past shadows flesh
somewhere high up
beyond the glimmering headlights
of muttering pastel colored boulevards
that flicker contorted images
of the resurrected living dead
still warm
in your dreadful toxic bed

so tell me dead girl
till the day i die
is it better now
beyond father time
no more words and wounds
no more toothaches
and lunging depressions
pulling you helplessly
into gloomy vortexes
shadowed cups
of looming spacelessness
with no downs or ups

instead you say
you're published
in the Dead Leaf rag
where words like shrouds
blur ballooning solicitude
of indecipherable
mirrored reflections
under tongues of crystal ethers
where life lives backwards
and you just
write beautiful
white
nothings
like flat eyed Phoenician ghosts
beyond the ages
in windless skies
on empty pages