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Traveler Oct 3
Big Bang of aesthetics
Cognitive creative thoughts
The universe is expanding
With thee inertia of the god
........................................
Traveler Tim
M C Sep 17
Hunger hurts. I have hunger pains.
Last night in a dream I murdered my mother.
What to do with tenacious voracity?
Uncalm, I wait. Breathing.
The girl in my dreams
is not the Girl Of My Dreams.
The girl in my dreams
is a dream, not a girl.
Ephemeral as an 80s B-list starlet,
gauche garish gorgeous Kim Chemtrail.
Yet also a goddess template,
Aphrodite Melainis
scantilyclad in sambhogakaya.

IRL I flop on the family sofa,
a throne of domus et placens uxor,
nottomention my heart's megastar my daughter.
Yet inmyheadinbed, composite nondescript
geheimniskramerin girl
pulls up alluringly in a stolenconvertible
stolen from the 'no time to explain' meme,
jauntily exhorts, 'Jump in! I'll tell you
we're going nowhere on the way!'

She sparks me up an ex-addict's nonaddictive
dream ciggie (still a nightly motif,
tho' 5 years clear of Lucifer's leaf).
Her composite nondescript organic
signalbox of a shifting photofit dreamface
I can't quite place.  
But she has a name, this fume fatale:
Nonia Art Thrush. & a battlecry:
'Namas'cray till athanasy!'

Is Nonia Art Thrush
the girlnextdoor
from the cosmicinflationary brane nextdoor?
Are dreams a multiversal telepathic datingapp
for la creamy reruns of lacrimae rerum
on the Earth at Lagrangepoint 3,
where Nonia's my girl
when the Sham Pistols ruled the world?
She's not a girl from another poem,

tho' she could be the femmeinspiratrice
of all my fragma & very,very late uptodate
mature juvenalia, the nominelle negatotty
Dulcinea del Tanothetawave
who favours my quest
for Artistic Failure,
poesy w/ no ring to it. Honestlynot
a tosstalgic wifeinwatercolours
under oneiric slylid covers

(tho' she may boast grainy shifty
magnificent ghostbristols
of undulating proportions & angles):
the girl in my dreams
is not The Girl Of My Dreams.
She could be some Venus usherette,
bangtidy holy midinette, some former fondler
over yonder, the one who gotaway
my grey beautycomputer can't remember.

Composint **** squintingly minted
for REM cameo (tonic/phasic mo', not Mike Stipe & Co)
in some avenue scene fugue
of dreary bleary dream.
In the hinterplaying hinterior, where
oracles forage in the dark in the past,
& I snore a traumarbeit breathoflife
into phantoms nostalgia warehoused
by my ostrichopus unconscious.

Despite all my age,
I'm still just a nostalgerbil in a cage
of longing for the longings of longago.
I twinge w/ wist tinged by the mist
of Nonia Art Thrush as she diZZZolves
into the ideal foam of Dream's
foundations. L/ Nora Fries,
a bride on ice, for still was the life
that dies in the mind.

Paramnesic Nod's
just the worldride rerouted for sleepers,
leased creatures blithe. I rollover
to my wife,  noctivagant gallant
who's been by herside allnight.
'Namas'cray till athanasy,'
I mutter. 'What's that, hubbers?'
'Erm, it's Bedfordshire's county motto,
my hardlight angel Aurora, it means:

'The girl in my dreams
is not The Girl Of My Dreams.'
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
The drive is endless, perilous,
and being recorded for posterity,
because one planet
is no longer enough.

H.P. Lovecraft is at the wheel,
and we're looking at one thing
and not your mother.

That was a Freudian slip,
but not really surprising
since he's also along for the ride.

And when we get there
we'll scavenge for sovereignty
in the orange filter of hope.

Then a flag will mark
our demesne,
a spot defining both
pride & terror,
as it delivers a dose of ambition,
yet, reeks of future tyranny.

Pray our luck runs out along the way
or we run out of gas
or steam
or headway...

Then again, maybe we should
hope for the breast.
I mean best !
Freud's at it again.
Because one planet is no longer enough
Chris Jul 2019
The chains of life slowly drifting,
As the spirit melts away,
As the tide is ever shifting,
Swallowing the light of day.

Rigor of the body swaying,
To a tune that Hades hums,
Two coins, and no more pain,
River Styx will fill my lungs.

Horror of rejection fading,
As my past loves turn to dust,
I'll go with you, silent, praying,
I will forego earthly lust.

Sanity completely leaving,
Echoes call me to the void,
Things are seldom worth believing,
I'm so sorry doctor Freud.
A quick note on how male genitalia is a faster way to the other side of the veil.
See poetry at work at : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G71IJLtWODc
Is it the possibility of
Some unforeseen yet magical
disappearance or
Of it being
Loped off
That makes one so very aware?
Erections must give great reassurance
Yes!
It is I
I am here
I am still here

Freud says that women want one
That they look down and see barren flatness and one fine line
instead of a mounting glory
A majestic rod
But I think perhaps
Freud is more afraid of losing his
Would that make him a woman?
I think not.
She is not on the right side
of the minus sign.

It must be a perpetual
Existential terror
The possible fate of Bobbitt
the Marine
Having one’s sliced off and
Thrown over the roof into the tall grass
Where the cops won’t go
unless the dogs go first
It’s so easy to do
Look it’s Mr. No *****.

One must understand this
From a very early age
And what of the consequences?
Shall we build effigies everywhere
Living spaces and statues
And talk about them all the time
And never learn
how to get the stream into the bowl?
Justus May 2019
The continued repression
      of the id's desired pleasure
Will lead to the death
      of some poor *******
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