Poetic ambiguity and anxiety about training to become a Psychotherapist.
After millions of years of silence the talking cure emerges yapping.
The young disciples in training follow the talk, degrees in hand, in pre-genital latency. Supposedly there to help the sick, masked with dagger in hand ~ who knows more than I, the ego.
The noise from the Tavistock is deafening as the talking community scratch theory around the table without a trace of anxiety; the shrink family is arguing again while the sleeping Buddhist lion opens one eye briefly ~ Africa carry their babies on their backs in swinging security, what a funny lot!
The therapists lucky chair sits where it wants to and the magic couch lays stiff ~ But I want to sit next to you!
Bookshelves stacked with titles ablaze in the magical land of theory as tumbleweeds pass and tears fill. Please sir, can I have some more? I need to repeat this pleasurable sensation, as the clock is watched and feared ~ Gaps in chat hold golden keys.
Anna and Melanie play in the sand while Winnicott observes, trust verses mistrust, are you watching Daddy?
I don’t have a pen, but where do I sign.