KAFKA SPEAKS SENSE.
There go those voices again,
Like being an operator in a
Telephone exchange for the
Mentally insane. The nurses
Take no notice of your pose
Or how you stand with hands
Over your ears telling the soft
Voices to go away. Mother said
It was demons come to take you
Off for being a naughty girl and
That you’d end up in purgatory
If you were lucky or burn in Hell.
She was a swell dame, always out
To spread the blame. Father said
It was a form of dementia, he still
Does, his voice shriller than all the
Rest, telling you what to do and
What is best. The quacks try all
Kinds of things to sort you out,
Even try frying your brains, one
Even tried shafting you, knowing
No one would believe you if you
Sprouted it all out. There is a kind
Of calm once the voices are gone,
A kind of honeymoon without the
Sweaty nights. Kafka speaks to
You often, his dark piercing eyes
Breaking through the gloom, his
Voice soft, gentle, but persistent
Like a leaky tap, but at least he
Speaks sense, not like the others
With their useless crap. There
Is a scent of urine in the air.
The high windows letting in
Light; better the sadness of
Day, than the madness of night.
