The tenth read of The Bell Jar was even better than the first –
I felt worse.
I felt well and deep,
and worse.

Freud and Marx were right:
there’s something wrong.
The starting blocks are cursed:
they’re cur-ur-ur-ur-
s’d.

Oh!
He looks so dead,
face down on his bed.
That’s because he’s dead.
What was it I read?

My psychiatrist
seems to have missed
the plain fact that I’m mad,
that I’m kill-my-mum-and-fuck-my-dad mad.

He’s going to fix my nose
and have me repose
upon some general default joy!
What a goy,
what a funny little goy.

He said,
“The spoiled little Jew with her Jimmy Choos and Hampstead Blues – when’s she due?”

The spoiled little Jew
with her Jimmy Choos
and her Hampstead Blues
has arrived for her half-past two
with a snooker cue.

Oh!
He looks so dead,
face down on his bed.
That’s because he’s dead.
What was it I read?

Sing it to the heart!
Sing it to the birdless dark!