I start dreaming about this diary
out of chronological disorder .
Perhaps a clinical study in a spider's web ,
long before I was born in the unstable,
surrounded by a monstrous bestiary ...
Don't call me god- I am but the shadow
of the void .
Master noster of dissociative alchemy ...
I wake up at night out of fear of normality .
Living in society is like rewriting the history
of psychiatry !
Why add suffering to madness ?
I don't like working in the woodshop
it reminds me the torture of the cross...
I love touching the skin of the clay,
its like holding the key to secret architectures...
I am the almighty potter that shapes forms
within the fertlle womb of the matrix ...
all this chats just drive us appart -let's talk !
Don't be afraid of my fishy eyes !
I'm desesperatly pounding on the walls of a house
with no doors or windows where I'm locked out !
truly ,I tell you : ''If you come across this accursed Antigone
on stage ,subject her to the incestious Dyonisian wedding ! ''
Really warning you : ''Don't believe the verses of these mischievous poets
who cause us so much pains ! ''
Words are wild beatitudes that must be deconstructed
through the Bacchic exhilaration of lunacy...
To be crazy is a role that can be learned .
The contract with the demon in white coat you will honor !
In an endless padded satin night you will spin ...
The last pages of my diary will remain blank
like a rediscovered innocence ...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 11th, 2026 11:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments5
With a golden blade on a scythe cut the golden bough or mistletoe caught before it hits the ground. Druid sacrifice. Good write my friend
Druidic psychiatry has much to teach us !
Ask the wicker man
chronological disorder
Well said
I'm an expert on the subject !
Perhaps the most mysterious book in the world is not fate, nor history, nor a diary, but human consciousness trying to understand itself, turning its own pages down to the very last blank page.
the blank pages create a space of endless possibilities...
Lorenz, this feels like a fever dream stitched together from mythology, psychiatry, religion, and surreal self-examination. 😄 The poem moves with a kind of deliberate instability that keeps the reader off balance in fascinating ways. Thought-provoking work, my friend. 🦋🙏🌌🐦⬛
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