Florid Psychosis

by Bill Yarrow

On the advice of a friend, I've stopped
dreaming. As a result, I've developed
a florid psychosis in which everything
I've dreamed for the last thirty-three years
is now real. I have new friends, a new job,
my dead relatives have all come back, I'm
half my weight, have all my hair, reside in
Prague. It's February 1924. Kafka won't die
until June. Freud's 67. He's just published
The Ego and the Id. My superego refuses
to read it. Lotte Reiniger is working on
the cutouts for Prince Achmed. I bought
a radio embroidered with pearls. I tuned it
to the future, but it only plays the sleepy past.