Pas­send zur Jah­res­zeit mal etwas Besinn­li­ches von X.J. Kennedy:

A Visit from St. Sigmund

T’was the night befo­re Christ­mas, when all through each kid
Not an Ego was stir­ring, not even an Id.
The han­gups were hung by the chim­ney with care
In hopes that St. Sig­mund Freud soon would be there.
The child­ren in scream class had kno­cked off their screams,
Let­ting Jun­gi­an arche­ty­pes dance through their dreams,
And Mam­ma with her bra off and I on her lap
Had just snug­g­led down when a vast thunderclap
Boo­med up from my uncon­cious aro­se such a clatter
As Bap­tist John’s tee­th made on Salome’s platter.
Away from my dar­ling I flew like a flash,
Tore straight to the bath­room and threw up, and – smash!
Through the win­dow­pa­ne hurt­led and boun­ced on the floor
A big brick – holy smo­ke, it was hard to ignore.
As I heard fur­ther thun­der­claps –lo and behold–
Came a litt­le psych­ia­trist eigh­ty years old.
He dro­ve a whee­led couch pul­led by five fat psychoses
And the gleam in his eye might indu­ce a hypnosis.
Like sub­li­mi­nal mea­nings his cour­sers they came
And, con­sul­ting his note­book, he cal­led them by name:
„Now Schi­zo, now Fetish, now Fear of Castration!
On Para­noia! on Penis-fixation!
Ach, yes, that big brick through your glass I should mention:
Just a simp­le device to com­pel your attention.
You need, boy, to be in an analyst’s power:
You talk, I take notes – fif­ty schil­lings an hour.“
A bag full of sym­bols he’d slung on his back;
He loo­ked smug as a junk-pedd­ler laden with smack
Or a shrewd poli­ti­ci­an soli­ci­ting votes
And his chin­be­ard was stiff as a star­ched billygoat’s.
Then lay­ing one fin­ger asi­de of his nose,
He chort­led, „What means this? Mein Gott, I suppose
There’s a mea­ning in fin­gers, in cand­les, und wicks,
In mou­se­holes und dough­nut holes, stee­p­les und sticks.
You see, it’s the immi­nent pro­s­pect of sex
That makes all us humans run ‚round till we’­re wrecks,
Und each inno­cent infant sin­ce peo­p­le began
Wants to bed with his mom­ma und kill his old man;
So never you fear that you’­re sick as a swine –
Your han­gups are every sane person’s und mine.
Even Ham­let was hot for his mom – there’s the rub;
Even Oedi­pus Club­foot was one of the club.
Hmmm, that’s humor uncon­cious.“ He gave me rib pokes
And for almost two hours explai­ned phal­lic jokes.
Then he sprang to his couch, to his crew gave a nod,
And away they all flew like the con­cept of God.
In the worst of my dreams I can hear him shout still,
„Mer­ry Christ­mas to all! In the mail comes my bill.“