Mental Health 101
1)
Being alive is terrible, diabolical,
fraught w/ peril at every level.
From dreaming dreamy dreams we're torn,
from moment you're cockcrowbarred outta bed,
a thousand natural shocks ahead.
Accidents predate, can’t wait to happen.
Life is death eager to ambush,
& you’re ever a danger to yourself, moosh
(coz two indifferences one death errant equal:
subconscious suicide, senseless synchronicity
is crazy paving gazing nodding off to self-pity,
plus juggernaut’s shortcut down your sac-de-cul).
Lovers leave, knockers sag, cocks flop.
There is no God but there are Acts of God.
Taps leak, archdukes are assassinated
& your kids will surely bugger off their bikes.
No Dharma rama will get you Buddhalike
as fast as full Englishes & being overmedicated.
Eggs, Ming vases smash. Hearts, backs break.
Souls will be lost & knees will be scraped.
Suicides succeed, suicide attempts fail,
parasuicides fluke it. Souffles go ’phut’ & stay flat.
Milk is spilt; firemen & soldiers don’t come back.
Reconciliation letters get lost in the mail.
2)
Everything is terrible, demon-illogical.
Round all four corners Jormungand coils.
Justice gets gypped; cold cases stay paperclipped.
Loved ones die violently, prematurely, needlessly & still
the autocannibal universe will expand until
the photon/off switch trips
a trillion suns into damb squips.
All that Hitchhiker’s hokum I learned as a manchild
isn‘t true: life is not 42 , it’s horsemeat & paedophiles!
Horsemeat banquets in horsemeat houses on horsemeat
streets
paedo horsemeatstreetsweepers sweep. On their Nokias,
paed-estrians browse Wikipaedo, realise the Cabinet
are cyborgs half Rugged Lark lasagne, drone-piloted
by the Paedo Mafia.
Everything is wicked, despicable,
yet... Tho' we must swallow a distinct absence
of molehills,
Sanity's a cockroach of coping, Peace Of Mind's
a bodge-job-gened mutant, Hope is rodent-robust. Love ‘s
a salvageable sentiment. Conscience l/ Keef Richards
can beat the odds, even if standards drop l/ the Stupid 27 Club.
Whether Winnie well-wet-whistled on the wireless,
or Bob Marley wafting from a neighbour’s place,
a rugged rugrat’s redfaced noise in quake rubble alive,
or a once-upon-a-snowy-Easter boulder rolled to one side:
somehow somewhere someone’s mind will survive,
something somewhere will always be alright.
It might just as well be you
for a second or two.
Now shut the Hell out
or shut the hell up,
little ones. Sleep tight.