Jean-Paul Sarte analyzes me, his loopy eyes
Peering through crooked glasses

He’s half right about the rupture in reality of subjectivity

And the vertiginous nausea of our freedom/responsibility

Bland, “lift” music floats through the BFI
I’ve taken a minimum wage usher job

I leads people to their seats as though I’m a hotel porter

Putting on all the charming airs and graces I can muster

The call of the rooster at dawn has faded
Barks of dogs in Thai village streets are distant

Krapp listens to recordings of his younger self,
bemoaning the fragmentation of time

K is lost and confused
condemned by a faceless authority

Where are the Theban women now?
Where are the Danaids?
Where are the Dionysians who dance in chaos?

My father simmers in his library
Compelling me from above – an abstract superego

In a Catholic boarding school in the 1960s,
he rebelled against the treatment of friends by Catholic brothers

A life spent holding down the hungry body
Bran reigns in Westeros

A challenger in the school classroom and in the church yard and on the picket line
Slicing open Tories and kings

Modern consciousness is hard and cutting
The swerving oscillations of postmodern technology
Have curved it into a looping haze

Society enjoins me to produce and generate output.
My mind enjoins me to create
Sartre enjoins me to create

Biz once said that my head was cut off from my body
Asphyxiated
Alalaho

Urizen is dominant
Los is forgotten.