Psycho Life

How transient this psycho life, psycho babble, psycho speak, sat in corners, doing the freak, rant and rave, brand, engrave, and stamp and carve with a butcher knife. All the cuts and spilling guts could not convince any other than I am more mad than man, radically juiced on groovy drugs, still as paint, comatose shrugs, eyes held open with tooth-picks, groaning weight of psychotropics. I’d fandango with your mango, or dance the epileptic tango, a boogaloo of depression born, us children of a lesser spawn, electric shocks and shrivelling cocks, and whoops there goes my building blocks! So, how transient this psycho life, ties that bind I long to sever, seems so short, goes on forever, blued and blacked and vacuum packed and cut to shreds like Othello’s wife, this psycho life, let’s hear it again, this psycho life, one more time, this psycho life.