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Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

You take the couch.  The doctor draws out truth.

Your truth turns out to be a universe

Of hiding guts, your viscera, uncouth

Like sewers clogged, a clot of devils, worse,

Monstrosities all conjured like a witch

Is worshipping inside your entrails yet

They hover now above, their slant a pitch

Beyond all decency.  This Jung would pet

Them for his notes.  A spiritual expanse

Of evil he has called up from your core

And in this wizard Sabbath nightmares dance.

You should have held them in, you desperate whore.

  Intestine emanations he released

    Are in the air now, secrecies his feast.