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Mothers know best, or do they?
We get used to anything these days,
It is all conditioning in these ways,
Why was Pavlov's hair so soft?  I say,
Because he conditioned it! Hey, hey,
Mothers know best, or so they say,
Who is conditioning whom today?
Feedback welcome.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
You are the bell ring
Baby, you’re stimulating
I’m just Pavlov’s dog
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
"Untended Thoughts"


Untended thoughts falter softly
Leaving emptiness to be filled
With                whatever
Slow transformation bends
Awareness
Into something else
Pavlov would understand


Dingggg!
*******, Mr.Stork,
for this short changeling, shopsoiled babe,
tho ' I did ***** a psychotic hobbit,
guess I'm partly to blame.

I'll see this burden thru, do a hatchet psych-job
- of that, Mr.Stork, sir, have no doubt.
I solemnly promise each latest boyf
inalienable right to kick 'n' clout.

And of course I'll do all I can myself
to browbeat anklebiter into angsty beta ****:
everyday I'll repeat that he doesn't match up
and all he was good for was bad luck.

Frogs and snails and puppydogtails
are what alpha males are made of.
And beta ***** are mummy's boys,
but alpha beta *****, epsilon omega poofs

are made of pure love. Who idealise
mum's love denied into panacea with desperation.
As if Tim Mouse in the nellie-carriage, belles recoil
from eau de pathos, anti-pheromonic incel perspiration.

O he'll turn the other cheek
to shield from Social Services one with the red hand mark.
Scratching at the shed door like he miaowed,
or locked out on the patio like he barked.

Puny pure love is wet lettuce Y-front chromosome
when gals froth their gussets over flash pants fascists.
Even Pavlov and De Sade having a stab at being *** dads
couldn't rear such a magnificent *******.

My sadsack lad'll be lonely till end of his days
- let's toast to that, Mr.Stork, 'ear, 'ave a drink!
You know you're kinda **** for a heron's cousin,
and that beak must be at least 10 inch...

Yeah, I know the beta brat's blahrin',
but miserable little **** might as well get used to it.
**** me, Storky, you saucy ciconiiform
(say, did you know 6 billion sherries have rendered Santa impotent?)

And tho' I wish you'd airdropped this Wednesday
child in China or County Cork,
I'll swear on the Bible that my new bloke, Nigel,
didn't bop my nancy boy a shiner in County Court,

coz having his Ma beat that beta meh into him means
he'll sing 'Beat me outta me', beaten at sixteen.Job done.  
Storks and vultures, hens and harpies: birds of a feather.
When he tells you to ******* too, Mr.Stork, rues birthdays, I've won.

And if some myopic dumpling on heat should plop a grandkid
by miracle of stork stones or broken home or drunken need,
so sadistic fleet of Stork & Sons Limited delivers
generational cycles of dissatisfaction guaranteed.
SassyJ Mar 2016
The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls

So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart

An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality

Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules

We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm
For Joshua Ingram from the heart.....(Inspired by the  distortion of the 10 commandments and art)
http://hellopoetry.com/atlasmarker/
Ira Desmond Mar 2015
As I close my laptop
and it snaps shut

my dog sits up
ears perked,
chest puffed, and

at the ready for
me to stand up
and grab a leash
and a plastic bag

for his ****.

And he knows this routine
because it has been seared
into his brain with the white-hot
branding iron
of repetition.

A force of nature.
A category-five hurricane.

We laugh at them
for chasing their tails
when the microwave dings,
for salivating at bells,
but
I am no better than they are.

The same routines
are seared into my brain, too—

stimulus, response
stimulus, response
eat, sleep, ****, walk, ****,

love, reproduce, etc.

and I will continue to do so
aimlessly
just like Ivan Pavlov said I would.

One day I’ll find myself
like he’ll find himself—
lying on a cold slab
in a sterile room
only half alive
aghast at how quickly youth slipped away
but otherwise numb

as loved ones circle around,
hands over their mouths,

horrified
to press the button.
For Pongo.
melina padron Feb 2015
Is it still love if my hands burn
After I touch your face?
If all I am is consumed by you,
Do you really think that’s safe?

I don't want to be
Talked down from this ledge
But I may have to,
But it may not go through
The thickest part of my head
Cause the thinnest is
In the back.

I leave it open and exposed
So when your hands
Wrap behind my neck
You can dive them in
Just to see
How little is really left of me
And how much is being replaced
By you.

You touch me and it doesn’t hurt,
I kiss your mouth
And it starts to burn-
It’s a conditioning practice.

I am ready to learn.
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