a poem for the Angel Anarchica

Psych ward lights.
afternoon group.
snack time.
Lars is half beautiful,
half-horrible perversion.
I love his ivy-league intelligence
and friendly Jewish charm,
but he wants to be sodomized,
and turns noisy and evil
in rejection

Later, some dull half-evil Christians come,
purportedly
to sing us Christmas songs.
Tables are set with sugar cookies, donuts, etc.,
also some ranch and vegetables,
but mostly
just an abundance of depressive doom snacks.

I, the naïve music lover,
am the only one
who looks mildly interested
or in any way encourages
the dapper visitors
in their draining musical madness

As we all hunger for freedom
in this land of the free,
Lars mutters in Hebrew and
then his eyes glow
as he exclaims:
"Capitalism is freedom!"

Those dirty and tormented souls
I've seen undeservedly
left to the gutters and soup-lines
would no doubt disagree,
yet in this twilight scene
of 'educational' suffering
and stifling confinement
his anti-mantra almost makes sense

afterward, drained in the cool room,
I see a pink moon
and muse about
the brilliance of Nick Drake,
and wonder
whether he was really asexual
or just highly discreet,
and if so
just how he found such inspiration
without Eros
or worse: 'the devil,"
though it takes more that,
as any artist knows

Inside, I put the news on
but
see only another theater of the absurd...
it all seems like omens
that the Angel Anarchica
is soon to come
exploding
with freedom and art-works,
and love and drugs and fire-works,
yet also with riots
and feared further confusions

I put on my space-black shades,
and turn the T.V. off
along with my mind;
It's time for Adevan
and more opioids,
any madness to strive to forget
how we live these dizzy, busy lives,
abounding in sophisticated enterprises and fiery desires
swirling in consummate confusions,
desperately seeking love
yet half-freezing in terror at the same,
all masked:
spinning with wandering eyes across
the vast dance-floor, being
a windowed white space-ship
adorned with neon-lights
and convenient features,
yet plagued with frequent glitches
flown by captains
we've never seen,
going to unknown locations
for strange mystic purposes
we know not of