#freudian
Let's face it
its more ******** warfare
culturally they are used to faking it
as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds
do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine
hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright
in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe
what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and tied up
there for the having to your heart's content
presented to you the untamed beast
the wild moor tooled hot and ready
raw animalistic unfettered passion
rock hard we can name him Rocky
that goer that delivers every time
the one that is all your men aren't
and can never be cause he's gifted
sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide
tasty like fresh clean mushroom
Arabian stallion if ever there's one
with absolute pedigree and class
take a break from the mediocre
from the wham bangs no can dos
from the floppy quick-draws saps
imagine the dark horse with the most
in smooth soft pink leathery velvet
tis your secret your guilty pleasure
tis the obsession you made into a war
the fantasy that plays in your heads
tis behind fervours that haunts you
that you so well disguise in hatred
telling metaphors slip out Freud
hold him down, grind him hard
wear him out, let's wreck him so
the sado masochistic 'punishing him'
give him a hard time, it all says a lot
you twist innocent sentences into
****** innuendos and innocent actions
are falsely given ****** meanings
as morn noon and night you toil
you troll and agitate for attention
yes you twist turn bite and nibble
in Freudian throes you talk love
you glaze unrequited love relentlessly
you close your eyes and dream sweet pain
yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare
its a flutters obsession, it's the classic '
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills
you better face it you're all addicted
It's an ******** War-fare and you all know so.....
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
A star-crossed son was born
To the father whom he would ****
And to the mother whom he would kiss
In incestuous, marital vow one day
Welts upon his feet
Found in the forest, a baby crying,
He grew wise and wrong
Unaware of a conspired world
When Oracles did speak to him
As drunken men and and as pretty women
He took their words upon his heart
Without eyes gouged and necks broken
Open eyes looking, truly seeing,
He did bear the revolting truth
Without nary complaint
To the Gods who cursed him
Thus, it was Laius who lived
And it was Polybus who died
And it was Jocasta who did not see
Her son at the bejewelled altar
Rather, it was Merope, with her head turned,
Who saw dear Oedipus at the altar
Obeying the Will of the Gods
But to what ends?
He was meant to punish; to defy; to incite all evils
Not adhere to this cruel destiny
And now it is the wrong mother-wife
Whom he kisses, unravelling, in linen sheets
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 12:17 AM UTC
Doctor, tell me:
What do you believe of a woman who envies
not the placement of the ******* sword
but the expectation
placed upon the glorified weapon
to penetrate the holy blossom positioned
between two soft mounds of rosy flesh that
she would die to run her mouth over?
Faceless textbooks whisper
of specialized jealousy
that I, for a lifetime,
will never comprehend—
instead:
Red rouge cheeks plastered against
a clear pane, staring at the winged
angel behind the counter;
Doctor, I hate being a consumer—
I would much rather use my hands
to create a small squeal from
behind her silver tongue
revealing what she thinks
about my manner of exclaiming desire:
writhing lust, ***** thirst,
with weighty spit and heavy breathing
again an instrumental soundtrack:
her movements, mattress creaking—
But Doctor, do you think I am sick?
What is my diagnosis if I can only find beauty
in this societal No-No,
if I have never been an artist
but I always find myself painting
wonderful masterpieces
(a protégé’s standard)
with a cut lock of her hair as a brush,
dipped in white crushed powder,
fresh from a plastic orange bottle
that fell off my desk—
Must I confess to another sin, as if this is the church of
my grandmother’s rosary-laden hands?
Yes, I am reluctantly in love with my Escitalopram
so I have flirted with Acceptance
but he did not seem to like me.
Look here—
Just yesterday
I tried to sell her portrait
to a blonde woman in a pristine art gallery
who peered at my matted hair and how
it fell over the sweater I was wearing,
stained with dark muck,
and I was sent away with the canvas
clutched loosely by my
trembling fingers so that it
barely escaped being dropped.
I do not have nails anymore, Doctor—
What do you make of that?
I have plucked them off their
respective beds and that makes me
feel a little sick but
all is well because it is infinitely better
for my girl's fragrant little blossoms
when she comes into my arms
and allows me to pick them,
one by one, as I roam her field—
Doctor, I would sooner live
in the crumbling pavements of Hell
for an eternity than lose the dreams
that I freely, frequently dream
regarding her and how my nubbed hands are held so dear.
Anyway, Doctor, you need not worry:
I will always have my Escitalopram.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Quoth the Ego:
"What's wrong with you;
why aren't you more like me?"
Quoth the Id:
"What's wrong with me;
why am I so unlike you?"
Both seem like Shadow to me,
but then again
that may perhaps be
simply my own projection.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
the first time you have
mistaken me for her
i knew it wasn't
just a freudian slip
i mean i was aware
of it for a while now
i just chose not
to comment on it
but if i said
i didn't mind at all
i would be lying
but i guess
pretending i don't
know anything
is still sort of —
kind of —
lying.
like that time you
made me breakfast
in bed and i was
surprised you knew
how i liked my
coffee when you
didn't even like
caffeine — but
i realized that it
was the only
thing you knew
how to brew
because she was
the one who
taught you.
and that time
i was so sure
i caught the first
syllable of her name
trapped between
the intersection of
your lips and my skin
and throughout
that whole night
i wondered if you
were closing your
eyes because of
pleasure, or because
of the pleasure of
imagining her.
but the last straw
was on the day of
our wedding, and
we were saying
our vows, and i said
i (my name)
take thee (your name)
as my lawfully wedded
husband and you
were supposed to
say i (your name)
take thee (my name)
but instead of my
name you said hers
while we were at
the altar and you
were holding my
hands and
i knew —
and i have
always known
that it wasn't just
a slip of the
tongue.
{g.c.q}
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
What is it
within the realm of
my Self
that has the nerve
to question the divinity
of this current, fleeting moment?
Is it not the vessel of Life, itself,
that is used to navigate
these, the occluded
Seas of Death?
Could it not be
that a Mind and Body
are the very salvation
over which we so toil?
Would it not be an act of pure mercy
to have the capacity to look around
and to think, and create
while, all the time,
being pulled under
by the inevitable tide of change
we, in English, chose to call
"Death?"
That, in itself,
should inspire me to carry on
and to turn an eye
up from the ground, back from the past;
to within my self; this current moment;
and on, upward:
to the skies and, likewise,
the future.
What is it about my Mind
that so enjoys, or perhaps requires
some selfish sense of 'overlooking'
for the sake of ephemeral comfort?
Alas,
I know what word I would use,
but I dare yet not to use it;
for, t'is that a word, itself,
isn't the concept, itself;
and it's use would be to misdirect
from the nature of the experience,
and to mistranslate what I feel.
I realize the necessity
for names; for words:
we use them to facilitate communication.
I also understand their limit:
there is a great realm
beyond the transparent restraints
of our Languages.
I would identify the culprit
as either "Ego," or "Id."
But, better yet, I would argue
"both and neither."
Freud had some great ideas,
but I tend towards Jung-
I could sooner call it the Shadow,
or at least one aspect of it.
The Shadow is semi-subconscious.
It is an amalgam of fears and repression.
It can only hold so much pressure
before it erupts.
So,
I implore you
to study your Shadow.
It has great potential for change.
Failing to utilize it
is to be utilized by it.
Make it work for you
or you will work for it.
Use your Shadow
to your advantage,
or it will use you
to that of it's own.
Pick apart your Self;
put it back together.
Sometimes that's easier said than done,
but, with a proper mindset,
it'll come and leave
before you even know it.
It happens all the time.
Refuse the shackles
of thy Shadow;
break the chains
and share with the world
the fleeting feeling
of self-liberation.
That is,
if someone doesn't misinterpret what you've said;
looking through the Shadow,
everything looks darker.
Realize where you're going.
Realize what you're doing.
Heed what you feed,
external or internal.
Seek Balance.
Explore Ideas.
Gain Understanding
no matter how slow:
at all
is far better
than so many.
No one may escape these Seas;
but you can start some ripples
that will propagate ad infinitum.
Ask. Practice. Learn. Grow.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC