On the couch not meant
For idle dreams, I have lain,
Ready to lock my teeth
Like a martyr facing the squad,
But was told to keep agape.
Roar, surely, is not allowed
Nor is the tongue certain
Where to turn for refuge.
So the mind is all set,
The eyes closed all tight.
Clicks clear and crisp,
Metallic against glazed plates:
To pick, to scoop,
To file, to rub,
The whole refined torture set.
Suddenly, deep down the cave,
Where the ear has its roots,
Who is driving a power drill
At such high frequency and pitch
Through all my stalagmites
To rake my corruptions
And search all dark corners
For scandals yet unexposed?
Down the gutter they are flushed,
Gargling, anticeptic.
Torment after torment
Until confessions are wrung,
Until out is spit the whole truth,
The white-gowned judge then says,
“That’s all,” and sets me free.
|