Smarty-Pants Psychologists!

Let’s try to take the measured earthbound view:

evince the sort of body-laden equilibrium
that might just make a fine fit animal of you:

pick through the front-lines of your consciousness
to find the bits that proffer un-symbolic thinking:
“should I stuff an egg or kick a football?” –

something that prevents the sinking

and the bluffing puffery of involuted
self-examinations, with their proto-sicknesses

and folderol and castigations: which, besides which,

get thick in the way those smarty-pants psychologists

you nightly dream into your dreams corral

into a snide cabal, deriding your unblinking  

celebrations of the flesh, than which you think

there are no better ways of living sexually

fresh and free. Scrap their questionably

“fascinating” introspective mesh.

Be a constitutionally un-poetic treat.

Condense into the potent

unadulterated essence

of your dumb inimitable meat.

.