Sometimes I hate my mind’s filthy guts.
Because filthy guts are what I’m dealing with.
Truly gross entrails, you know…
The kind that don’t make the cut for haggis.
Freud made much of what he called the ‘id’.
The ‘id’, he said, runs primarily on the pleasure principle.
Babies are all ‘id’. They want want want without regard for others,
Without consideration of consequences.
Maybe the guts of my mind are this ‘id’ ingrown.
Pleasure principle, hmm. But what do they want, exactly?
When they snarl at me, “What you don’t get is…”
The ellipsis dangling there, glinting,
Sharp and cruel as a Hellraiser meathook…
What pleasure seeks this ‘id’ then?
“What you don’t get is…”
The impossibility of not completing the sentence.
Yet completing the sentence, I use what I DO get
While whatever it is that I don’t get
Remains an unknown unknown
O, slippery slippery guts of the mind.
“Is that what you think?!”
Another razor-barbed hook…
Just what, for god’s sake?
But one learns not to ask
And how to evade the barrage of quips and questions
By keeping a mantra running always through the mind
You’d laugh if you heard mine, but hey – it drowns out all:
All the “What you don’t get is…”s and “You’re just…”s
Until I let the mantra trail off into silence and
“You’re fucking writing about schizophrenia…”
Comes jarringly to mind. Or rather
Comes over my shoulder as if from
Someone standing over me.
And it’s the ‘you’ there that’s the problem, see.
Aye, there’s the rub.
It’s the essential other-ness of the voices
Bubbling up from the guts of the mind
Sending one reeling through thoughts like
“If it’s not me, who or what could it be?”
A normal response which leads ever to delusion.
It’s just the sickness talking
Deep in the guts of the mind.
It doesn’t know anything or want anything
Any more than does a disease of the spleen
The gall bladder
Or the small intestine.
And I’m… fine.
It’s really not too bad.
You can get used to anything, right?