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Diagnosis

 

 Diagnosis

 

I was just getting somewhere with my life & my poetry & the flow has been ruptured by a psychiatric appointment with diagnosis

“Schizo-Affective Disorder, Acute Anxiety, OCD, Complex PTSD” get fucked!

I’m a sic kunt original man

& I’ve read Immanuel Kant

& does my psychiatrist know who he himself is?

I’m not even sure I or indeed any of this exists

We could all be characters in God’s or a kid’s or a dog’s dream

My flow broken

They set traps in my way

Just when I’m feeling gay

It’s been great at home with Lao Tzu

Where nothing key can be understood

But it can be embodied

But the minute I go out I get mugged by people in expensive suits

I’m just trying to mind my own business

But everytime I start to feel good

People come for me & try & box me up

Maybe I’ll buy a baseball bat

& tell em all to fuck off!

& only go to the IGA

I like the guys in there

They even get in okra for me

I’m brilliant & Irish

Sub genius like Ginsberg

In this Anglo-Saxon normative

The shitstem full of tests

Suggesting nothing is understood

I’m a poet & I know it

I just find life impossibly brutal & brutalist

I can’t sustain socializing

I say fuck all this “I” shit!

As I say I might not even exist

God is Dead

Therefore the human sciences' pivot is baseless

Coz no one is enreasoned-rational capable of true judgement

Nevertheless the law is the law

As Johnson put it “The Law is an ass”

The game’s a joke

The game’s a lie

But we all must play along

Coz the world’s about power

The robots – the army of the thugs – in charge

& if you can find a peg

To hang ur hat on

Then maybe you'll live another week without a lobotomy

So to be honest I’m pissed off, really sad & frankly exasperated

If Psychiatry is meant to play a therapeutic role in a patient’s life

Then why do I feel like shit every time I talk to a doctor or a pharmacist?

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.


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