Psychiatry or is it not? (parody)
(with apologies to Johan Steyn)
The smiling tribal witchdoctor
with his bitter cure has got me under control,
everything does not begin and end with me:
with something he says he will fix my small thing
and I become aware, that I am different
but near to being unhappy
and aimless I walk back home.
The balance I can tell you
and now I do not walk the straight way.
My friends come to steal my things!
my wife is passable and during the day
when I whisper to Tristene and Isolde
and wake up they glare at me like wide mouth dragons
and scream that they do not “alls wille.” (do not want “to do everything.”)
I shiver when I can,
suddenly feel strange,
are unreliable for the slightest thing.
If it goes on longer I will probably cry,
make a confession to the elder
and with my conscience and face clean
I might reaffirm my vows.
This is a bad situation,
everything I am striving for, are moving to,
is unsafe against my young pen
and I have suspicions about every thing
(remember I do not talk the language
of that witchdoctor fellow)
everything does not begin and end with me:
and I live without peace and I am loose.
My life is now playing off in parts with fun,
without the absence of this and that girlfriend
and their demands in winter stir me
and I am not able to page through Chausson or Thomas.
I get time to read Rilke though
and in silence with nuances I lie and slobber.
Only taking notice of the wind blowing each day.
I whistle, after days walk straight past every rubbish bin,
know the taste of water from a urinal
and in a big jam
I am begging to get back my anguish
of cleanliness and God fearing virtue.
Let every angel that can
late at night call me in vain.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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