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Chris Jul 3
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 13
The continued repression
      of the id's desired pleasure
Will lead to the death
      of some poor *******
Ansley Feb 27
Freud wanted to like Christy,
He really really did.
But her white white teeth reminded him of a shark,
And so from her he hid.
Instead he loved Martha,
For the way she never talked.
If only his mom's face,
Hadn't been on a clock.
Then Martha would've been spared,
And we would have been taught,
That vague resemblance and trauma,
Should never tie the knot
Katy Perry was right about one thing
Marta Feb 21
There is a BOX with many moving parts It
is a GAME The object of the game is to
move the parts in such a way that all
shapes and colours align in perfect ORDER
Every time you move one piece all other
pieces move in response Creating ORDER in
one corner destroys it in another Removing
TENSION in one place creates it in another
It is an IMPOSSIBLE game The game is
called LIFE Its purpose is to seek order The
way to ENJOY it is to appreciate DISORDER
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
This is an edited, expanded, expounded, confounded, reverberation of Linguistic Illusions to Probable Solutions written months back.
Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging Aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
Pale blue violets shimmer
Among rag-tag fungal forests.
Branches tick-tock with
Burly blow of the sky;
Forgotten blossoms from
Your failed antiquity.
The summer that once was
Is hungry for more.

Discontinue your reticence,
Only you can consume your fate.
Green will gorge on you
Despite the bitter chill.

So go, go now and
Sit amongst the campfire.
Forage for the hum-drum you forsake,
**** your soul on a marshmallow pick,
Then eat it all before the night falls.

Derelict tulip tips lay idle on the mantle,
Dangling on the precipice
Of time and the void.
Missive yellow lollipops
Still tinker on tonsil
Like a child gone coy.

Maybe I'll engage myself in a chat with Freud,
Tell him I'm envious, remorseful,
And annoyed.
Golly gosh,
Your soul tastes cloy.

Or was that the marshmallow?
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