Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


Throughout each night it drifts
and settles like the dust of vital thoughts.
Yet unbeknownst to consciousness it hides
but lingers on to wait for its own time.
Communication at a level much the same,
as ghosts and figures of the underworld's free spirits
occurs with little recognised reliability.
Though access is the privilege of few.
Invaluable, painful in its openness,
it must inform, one barely needs to hear.
It deals in hunches, also called plain intuition,
like body language for the well and conscious mind.
Interpretation needs no fancy special skills,
all meaning is symbolic, almost clear.
However, no one who pretends a certain fondness
for it is very truthful, as it opens up
Pandora's Box, which is a tightly guarded,
and private last vestige of our ego.
Not only does it yank the covers off our limbs,
it strips all shreds of clothing to expose
our inner selves to others with a vengeance.
The skeletons now tumble from the closets,
a detailed view of genitals is given.
It graduates to public defecation
and gobbles up the dignity of all.
It is not witchcraft, voodoo or clairvoyance,
just inborn talents of our subterranean mind,
becomes of value only to determine who
is playing fair and straight with us.
And with themselves.

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