My bleary eyed ego takes one last sweeping swing between
the id and super-ego before settling like a toad, a resting
clammy hand on my shoulder…
 
and I recall Swenson trying with all his might to turn me.
A slip of a boy set against the great teutonic bulk of a sweating
shemale, thrusting and grunting, links rechts, links rechts…,
and all I could do was spin -dreidel dreidel dreidel….
 
Odd now to be a man fully formed from the silk of pastel sheets.
 
As we know
the id wants what it cannot have,
the super-ego denies the want of anything at all.
How such a thing does not die from doubt is a miracle,
or something we cannot comprehend.