You wanna test
my personality,
You say you’ll make a
man of me,
Wanna check the level of
Dianetic technology
required to set
me free
from the engrams that
bedevil me.
I’m very sorry,
Mr Scientology
in the words of Boy George
I’d much prefer a cup of tea.
***
Ahhh, Irish breakfast. The writer once had a personality test. It turned out he didn’t have one. The scientologists had to throw him back, and off he swam, along the stream of rushing humanity along Castlereagh Street, still unable to fathom what made him different, as in his mind he added up the numbers on the registration plates of the cars he passed. On cold nights he aches, and he thinks he may still have the hook embedded in his cheek.
Poetry and Paranoia 