On healing
On RD Laing’s fit of promise
I sought a cure for demons;
lived for the days they remained in suspension;
hoping the small hours would find forgiveness
and learn to be kinder.
I put a band-aid on each moment that hurt;
attempted to undo our births;
went to the moon for help, but couldn’t pass
the myriad of therapists
who crowded the place of no pain.
I travelled each end of London
for a potent enough medicine to calm nerves;
put schizophrenia in remission,
denied its existence to release the guilt.
I confessed everything to the time doctor
who prescribed yet more electricity.
When you blamed the next-door-neighbour,
I wrapped myself in a ball;
psyched up for the talisman.
Calling on blood and stone,
we found the faces of change
where the gods live;
empowered each memory
with a prayer for healing.
You listened to my heart;
bound our love to the wind,
before your white blood cells
dried up and died
from largactyl, depixol and modecate.
