lately i have been

i think,

too absorbent of the universe's

absurd, unknowable

mystery.

there's but one cure for such a sickness and that's--

well perhaps there are two,

and those are:

pot of course, its sympathetic, numbing fog,

and

syd barrett secondly,

a kindred spirit for the most self-hating,

those confounded by life,

casualties of the swift hand of reality,

it's knock-down force--

and the cruel pain of love,

a knock-down lonely purgatory in which i rest

well, toss and turn

a sort of vacuum that beats, a prolific pain

it keeps mothering itself anew