if i had a therapist

the little nickety nackety ways
and the big fat flooberty ways

the sound of my mother's voice
echoing in the cracked plaster
of my empty victorian style skull
(with the nice finish and rosettes
on the corners of each molding)
and the dead that haunt me.
I would tell you who
knows

that i am a freak
a lost, ridiculous
perverted freak.

the best loves I ever lost
and their long hair
blowing on the top of a ferris wheel
while they pretend i mean
anything to them at all.

the years (filled with bad
dance music and cheesey movies)
after where i believed,
and the moment
i realized that I'm alone

the way God abandoned me
when i was young, because
i askd why -- because I
demanded to know
what toothpaste Jesus would have used
what brand of jeans he would have worn
what television shows he would have watched

and if he would not
was it

a sin?

the hymns, i sing
in the shower
to scare away my demons
as i baptise myself