They’re shameful enough, but it’s the dreams
That really get to me. That time I shot
Franz Ferdinand played as children’s TV, or the night
I lived in an asylum with water pools to wade through
To open any door. It’s their almost order,
Their reality, that leaves me feeling so uncertain.
As if I needed more reasons to feel uncertain,
When days can feel duller than the dreams
And repetition seems to be the only order
But it’s never precise. My nerves are so often shot
That I’m not sure any day is got through
Normally. I sleep and dream at different times each night.
It’s not always, but they will come again, some night
And that’s yet another element which is uncertain,
It feels like I’m always sizing up, wading through
The strange, surreal, real, and different dreams.
And once again, it seems my mind is shot
Through with a changing, changeless order
Where the same things shift and stand in order
And everything lacks art, but feels, in the night,
Totally logical. I guess I now have a shot
At knowing all madness, the certain and uncertain
In my lucidity and my unlucid dreams,
The SSRIs having effects through and through.
But it isn’t really the dreams, but that through
Them I can see my mind isn’t mine, that order
Imposes itself from matter, chemicals make dreams.
So, each time I think I think, each night
Renders that belief only more uncertain.
Does control come from without, from stimuli shot
Across my synapses and neurons, my thoughts a snap-shot
Of the things that influenced them through
Day and night, repetitive not creative, uncertain
Only as the days were? They are in some unreadable order,
And I’m a failure, with my faulty mind still shown, each night,
Played out in the inscrutable, clearly-ordered dreams.
And now, instead of coming back to order, still my thoughts are shown in dreams
Carrying on through-out the night, making it abundantly clear my hopes seem shot.
And that elements will combine night after night in alchemist labs, consciousness alone uncertain.