'I am interested in the musings of the spirit Meade',
was the random thought that entered my sub conscious.

But it was quickly banished to that no-man’s land lying between
the front-line trenches of reason and despair,
those two enemies constantly at war.

Gathering all my strength, I pushed it away,
though it would, like a schoolboy exploring
London’s seedy district of Soho,
occasionally stray into the lower strata of my mind.

Not the morally authoritarian super ego part, you know,
christened by the father of psychology, Sigmund Freud,
but the dark, twisted id, that eminent psychologist’s word
for a place where primitive impulses lurk.

Why do they daily appear, like a repentant penitent
supping the chalice at holy mass?
Is the question I would put to the all-knowing spirit of Meade,
and what’s more, can its celebrated musings really answer
the great imponderables of life?

Answers on a postcard to my hide-out, care of the Mad Monk,
(which is what the staff know me as) care of Kickass Abbey,
now a NHS mental health walkin-in centre ­­- but don’t tell the wife.