formally “RD Laing’s Mother’s Funeral”
For RD Laing
he wept at his mother’s funeral
crying wracking tears at the fact
he had hated her and that his last
letter to her had been a pen drawn heart with
“i promise” inside in response to her request
he promise to never contact her again.
he took his son to look at the body but
they were so lashed on whisky
and chaos they couldn’t get the lid back on.
He had been so raw and so clever
he cut himself, saw beyond the
smiling faces of the doctors
to the iron mask beneath
that watched with iron eyes
the removal of parts of the brain
the administration of electric shocks
the injection of drugs and straightjackets
and pushed on into madness
He had emerged from the other side of
the abyss of psychoanalytical
black shoes smart ties
and cold benevolence to a
thicket of radical ideas
where madness is permitted
because it exists and is
to a place where the mind does
not matter, just breath and belly
and from there back to whisky and faded glory.
Perhaps he felt his mother was one
of those cold fish who would never understand.
If he knew, he would tell you,
if he could turn you on….
…the vomit by the coffin
mixed with tears and regret.