Sigmund Freud fainted in public on two occasions. Both incidents were precipitated by an argument with his protege, Carl Jung, about Egyptian death practices.
This desert is a mind— grave, cryptic thoughts
now excavated into blistering light:
stiff obelisks in coitus with the heavens
and pyramidal mansions of the ego,
half-human monstrous gods, the stony sphinx,
whose riddle, endless and unanswerable,
is solved by revelations of the sun.
This mind is ancient, vain, and choked with corpses.
This mind is his, for he too would be deathless.
A gleaming barque bound for the twilight lands
glides softly on the gold and turquoise Nile,
and he the mariner: Sigmund-Osiris.
Yet who shall be his Horus, his new sun?
He wakes within a smashed sarcophagus.
A flame illuminates the ghastly robber,
but withered, bandaged, dead, he cannot scream.
He watches as his name is sanded out,
and JUNG is chiseled in. Young Horus grins,
and spills a shriveled penis from a jar.