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"freudian" poems
1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of  leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome  maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips  silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your  gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,     marked you different, from the  the ladies of your neighborhood,                                           surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*
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May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
A love song for my Cochin* girl
1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of  leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome  maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips  silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your  gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,     marked you different, from the  the ladies of your neighborhood,                                           surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*
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61
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
0
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
i don't talk
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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70
Emerging from the darkness, Your face is encircled with stars of Orion. Fog surrounding your silhouette. Overwhelming force field separating My aura from yours. Walk a fine street of plated gold, Deploring plastic cores, and camera stores. Flying fast, Screaming at the past. Back down from the galaxy. I scream with ecstasy; "I am Shakespearean! I am Freudian!" You are Napolean, King Henry and Led Zeppelin!" Crash, smash, crack myself open. Electromagnetic magnetism.
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Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Galactic Camera Wars
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.* personally? i hardly think ******** **** is what men turn to when excavating *********** ever watched pregnant women ************ while filming themselves?! ever watch pregnant women film themselves ************ ever? in the beginning there was the word, and the word was god... you hear the talking of pregnant woman ************ **** me... who the hell needs ******** *** when you can **** off to a pregnant woman... jerking off, talking ***** paradoxes of Freud about her yet to be born son watching her **********     who the hell needs ******** **** just watch a pregnant woman ********** oath of god...    hand on my heart...      it doesn't actually encompass a desire for intricacies of latex...             just a pregnant woman ************ *** mad... *** mad...             *** mad...             ******* *** mad as hell...   Freud? pale as an uncooked pancake dough...    the **** that comes out from the mouth of a pregnant woman ************ believe me...   i ****** off to one of them doing it helpless. nice try... thinking a man would turn to ******** ***********   can't turn to more ******** **** than a pregnant woman, ************ while talking, Oedipal, *****             try... try, ****** try to bash that fact out of existence!
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Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
**** revised...
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.* personally? i hardly think ******** **** is what men turn to when excavating *********** ever watched pregnant women ************ while filming themselves?! ever watch pregnant women film themselves ************ ever? in the beginning there was the word, and the word was god... you hear the talking of pregnant woman ************ **** me... who the hell needs ******** *** when you can **** off to a pregnant woman... jerking off, talking ***** paradoxes of Freud about her yet to be born son watching her **********     who the hell needs ******** **** just watch a pregnant woman ********** oath of god...    hand on my heart...      it doesn't actually encompass a desire for intricacies of latex...             just a pregnant woman ************ *** mad... *** mad...             *** mad...             ******* *** mad as hell...   Freud? pale as an uncooked pancake dough...    the **** that comes out from the mouth of a pregnant woman ************ believe me...   i ****** off to one of them doing it helpless. nice try... thinking a man would turn to ******** ***********   can't turn to more ******** **** than a pregnant woman, ************ while talking, Oedipal, *****             try... try, ****** try to bash that fact out of existence!
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60
To talk to the menace of man To hear fast words belched out Like a drunkard holding His gun Time trickles tears Of the one's Left behind How beauty moves Is a mystery To minds unprepared for chance I hear year long struggles from bugles Laced In Gold And am very very bored There are times when I speak And I cannot recognize the voice Somewhere far off from me A woman pulls up her flowered shorts Was I there to pull them down? Or was I here? **** wednesday forgot its own name Distracted by the glare of the bad masses B's Expensive and ludicrous jewelry To take a moment is to take a slice of life Forgetting that you were once nothing And soon will be Nothing To fret the death of the ego the work the paint splattered soul dirt Chipped teeth line curb side markets With trinkets and hairy arm pits I destroyed a letter I wrote to myself today Because the nakedness of mine own soul Was to boring and dreary to read For now we are the waking still lives Of the art we all wished we could create So close so far so long so short Is our time here to giggle at the way a dog must walk When it is constipated Don't laugh at that because dog constipation Is a Very Serious Thing Regression in the Freudian sense croquet neck tie polar bears My mother named me after that But not before She shot the winning shot In her hometown Volleyball game Letters of three make me sneeze
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Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
Letters of Three/Make Me Sneeze
Hildegard of Bingen the most musical abbess of the year 1097 a.d. met with Jung the unconscious detective and Ginsberg the howling poet for lattes at some Starbucks in a vibrating city on a shimmering afternoon. Angelic minuets keep flowing, effervescing through my chakras like tonal champagne . . . the glowing femme declared. Beams of ethereal light infuse me, tsumanis of energy tempt me to dance right out of my habit. Ignoring the possibility of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public, Alan mused behind his hornrims . . . I get what you mean like I have felt the same perfusion of joy watching cans of peas and ayahuasca dance with talking bananas at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn, can you dig it? Still suffering from his Freudian hangover, Carl reframed them both . . . Any conclusions or convictions drawn from such experiences may not self-verify because your introspective identifications attempt in vain to concretize the amorphicity of decentralized psychic sensations which reach conscious awareness only at the expense of extension. What did he just say? Hildegard asked Alan. I have absolutely no idea, the portly poet answered as he doodled an intricate mandala on his hemp napkin.
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Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
MANDALA SHMANDALA
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite Safe Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city One She was as vast as the vast city around her New York Chicago Seattle all or None of the above Dream World Safe Safe enough to jump Not really to jump Maybe more to fly The fear did not affect her action In her hazy dream world city She could fly she thought She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron Stepping Up Looking Down The fear was still not there This was not a suicidal act She wanted to jump Not so much to jump as to fly King of this concrete jungle The ***** of the heart The pulse of the hand The breathlessness The final step Shes soaring now Shes falling now flying:soaring:floating falling:flailing:breaking you won't break yourself if you believe you can't There's the confliction The child that believes she can fly The grown girl who lays broken to die Her body is broken like a cartoon Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder There was a whole body There was not blood guts or reality Hazy dreamworld city In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance She sustains no injuries Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams The pit of the stomach Winded Clammy Punched in the stomach Falling Dreams Yet she did Why was the fear not there? It was not in her sleep cycle not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city She saw her broken body rise to life Why could she sleep through the fall? And the next sky scraper she fell from ...Not in hazy dreamworld city ...Would she walk away? Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper? Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend Translation of one image onto another So I was jumping away from men Commitment What's new? Spend money and time Loose friends and crime Jumping away from reality Soaring now Falling now Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive Like if she got close enough to it She would become it She would consume it The light would consume her Illuminated The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
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Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Hazy Dream World City
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite Safe Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city One She was as vast as the vast city around her New York Chicago Seattle all or None of the above Dream World Safe Safe enough to jump Not really to jump Maybe more to fly The fear did not affect her action In her hazy dream world city She could fly she thought She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron Stepping Up Looking Down The fear was still not there This was not a suicidal act She wanted to jump Not so much to jump as to fly King of this concrete jungle The ***** of the heart The pulse of the hand The breathlessness The final step Shes soaring now Shes falling now flying:soaring:floating falling:flailing:breaking you won't break yourself if you believe you can't There's the confliction The child that believes she can fly The grown girl who lays broken to die Her body is broken like a cartoon Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder There was a whole body There was not blood guts or reality Hazy dreamworld city In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance She sustains no injuries Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams The pit of the stomach Winded Clammy Punched in the stomach Falling Dreams Yet she did Why was the fear not there? It was not in her sleep cycle not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city She saw her broken body rise to life Why could she sleep through the fall? And the next sky scraper she fell from ...Not in hazy dreamworld city ...Would she walk away? Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper? Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend Translation of one image onto another So I was jumping away from men Commitment What's new? Spend money and time Loose friends and crime Jumping away from reality Soaring now Falling now Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive Like if she got close enough to it She would become it She would consume it The light would consume her Illuminated The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
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85
And now a little something for the ladies: Stop telling men how to be men. You are never satisfied with the results of your interference in the natural order. Ladies want a man who is sensitive and attentive to their kaleidoscope of emotions, who enjoys heart- warming moments, baby showers, and shopping malls. They want this same man to not be attracted to men. Ladies want a man who will do all of the above, plus be strong and handsome, a provider, a nurturer, a protector. Just as long as he never gets angry with her. And doesn't cheat. Rapunzel, this man does not exist. In caveman times, if you had a man grab your hair, it was because he was about to club you unconscious and drag you back to his real man-cave. How barbaric...and Freudian **** eh? You see, ladies, we don't run the male N.F.L. locker rooms the way you run yours. Men are brutish, vile, roid-raged, and coarse in competition. Just the way you like them. But when you find one that likes you, you can have a smattering of those nice things as well. Because he likes you. If you were lucky enough to find a sensitive devil like that, i know you wouldn't do anything stupid to change his opinion of you. That would just be foolish and self-defeating, wouldn't it? After all, Women's Lib didn't teach you to stop being women, did it? If you want it all, you have to take it all, good and bad. Just sayin'...
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Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Rapunzel
Unzip, new skin quick neutralised Freudian slips A spy game so slick well placed mortars sinking battleships new suit cover skin ill-suited to do business with life find a life that suits your business before you cover your life with a business suit.
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Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 1:23 AM UTC
Spy game.
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.....
0
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
My pinky for a horse.....
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.....
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50
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite Safe Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city One She was as vast as the vast city around her New York Chicago Seattle all or None of the above Dream World Safe Safe enough to jump Not really to jump Maybe more to fly The fear did not affect her action In her hazy dream world city She could fly she thought She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron Stepping Up Looking Down The fear was still not there This was not a suicidal act She wanted to jump Not so much to jump as to fly King of this concrete jungle The ***** of the heart The pulse of the hand The breathlessness The final step Shes soaring now Shes falling now flying:soaring:floating falling:flailing:breaking you won't break yourself if you believe you can't There's the confliction The child that believes she can fly The grown girl who lays broken to die Her body is broken like a cartoon Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder There was a whole body There was not blood guts or reality Hazy dreamworld city In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance She sustains no injuries Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams The pit of the stomach Winded Clammy Punched in the stomach Falling Dreams Yet she did Why was the fear not there? It was not in her sleep cycle not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city She saw her broken body rise to life Why could she sleep through the fall? And the next sky scraper she fell from ...Not in hazy dreamworld city ...Would she walk away? Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper? Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend Translation of one image onto another So I was jumping away from men Commitment What's new? Spend money and time Loose friends and crime Jumping away from reality Soaring now Falling now Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive Like if she got close enough to it She would become it She would consume it The light would consume her Illuminated The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
0
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
Hazy Dream World City
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite Safe Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city One She was as vast as the vast city around her New York Chicago Seattle all or None of the above Dream World Safe Safe enough to jump Not really to jump Maybe more to fly The fear did not affect her action In her hazy dream world city She could fly she thought She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron Stepping Up Looking Down The fear was still not there This was not a suicidal act She wanted to jump Not so much to jump as to fly King of this concrete jungle The ***** of the heart The pulse of the hand The breathlessness The final step Shes soaring now Shes falling now flying:soaring:floating falling:flailing:breaking you won't break yourself if you believe you can't There's the confliction The child that believes she can fly The grown girl who lays broken to die Her body is broken like a cartoon Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder There was a whole body There was not blood guts or reality Hazy dreamworld city In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance She sustains no injuries Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams The pit of the stomach Winded Clammy Punched in the stomach Falling Dreams Yet she did Why was the fear not there? It was not in her sleep cycle not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city She saw her broken body rise to life Why could she sleep through the fall? And the next sky scraper she fell from ...Not in hazy dreamworld city ...Would she walk away? Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper? Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend Translation of one image onto another So I was jumping away from men Commitment What's new? Spend money and time Loose friends and crime Jumping away from reality Soaring now Falling now Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive Like if she got close enough to it She would become it She would consume it The light would consume her Illuminated The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
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85
Now that I’ve told you all my secrets Won’t you come in the night and ****** me with the truth? Push me down, and tie me to the bed that I made Freudian-slipping between layers of *in vino veritas conversations* When I manifested from under the mask where I just want to be accepted as both the light and my shadow Won’t you come pull my dark passenger from the dark depths of my sacral chakra? My deepest desires spiraling out, you've got me wrapped around your finger I am the snake coiled around the core of the sweetest fruit I just want to savor Then slither back home To the Goddess of the Abode To decompress this tension To Rise up and slit my throat at the vortex of expression
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Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
II. The Sweetest Fruit: Svadhishthana
::: Daddy's Little Girl trying to **** mom you **** her in yourself all your hope is gone Daddy's Little Girl your sanity is going you are oh so Freudian and your slip is showing Daddy's Little Girl hopeless as can be when will you stop the self-destruct the button inside ME
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Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
mourning Electra
*Mirror! Mirror!  On the wall Though art the cause of many a fall What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving. Wearing masks in a variety of color In a bid to entice a bachelor With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom Anticipating a blossom Of a methodically engineered relationship Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip Nips at the bud Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud. Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored By an imperfect mirror…*absurd.
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Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Literal Lateral inversion.
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard...  i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc. it's sheryl crow for fuck's sake... it's not            katty perry... that debut: was... pristine.. seminal... sure... my feet stink... what? what's wrong with Cheryl Crow?! you better be ******* with me for serious, otherwise i switch to: unhinged... a change? ***** won a ******* grammy! sure... she married a glorious child of the two pedals...    who faked Paris having faked a tourism ploy of France... it's still Sheryl Crow though! a trucker's daydream of perfect head, incubated by a mouth of an 18 year old boy... no... i like Alanis... when... whatever that was that came from a woman's mouth was... deemed, fun... now?        n'ah... not really. all i really want... that sort of **** was fun... now? i'm becoming more and more bemused by the fragrance of my socks, worn, second day to count thoroughly...               hand in my pocket... right through you... so... BIG daddy gonna come around to save this teenage girl's cherry *** the kind of daddy that could never have a beer with me? like i'm feeling that: while using my right hands when typing feels like i'm using my left hand, and vice versa?! no! i'm not having it! Cheryl Crow... &... Chrissie Hynde!             no... don't give me the ******* zig-zag argument suggesting i'm about to see something "better", via an X, cross-eyed... blurry, like some reverse Freudian fetish off Ariel, the mermaid, blurry, under the water... Disney princesses my *** head over feet... now... that's a song.
0
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
**** Alanis Morrissette!
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard...  i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc. it's sheryl crow for fuck's sake... it's not            katty perry... that debut: was... pristine.. seminal... sure... my feet stink... what? what's wrong with Cheryl Crow?! you better be ******* with me for serious, otherwise i switch to: unhinged... a change? ***** won a ******* grammy! sure... she married a glorious child of the two pedals...    who faked Paris having faked a tourism ploy of France... it's still Sheryl Crow though! a trucker's daydream of perfect head, incubated by a mouth of an 18 year old boy... no... i like Alanis... when... whatever that was that came from a woman's mouth was... deemed, fun... now?        n'ah... not really. all i really want... that sort of **** was fun... now? i'm becoming more and more bemused by the fragrance of my socks, worn, second day to count thoroughly...               hand in my pocket... right through you... so... BIG daddy gonna come around to save this teenage girl's cherry *** the kind of daddy that could never have a beer with me? like i'm feeling that: while using my right hands when typing feels like i'm using my left hand, and vice versa?! no! i'm not having it! Cheryl Crow... &... Chrissie Hynde!             no... don't give me the ******* zig-zag argument suggesting i'm about to see something "better", via an X, cross-eyed... blurry, like some reverse Freudian fetish off Ariel, the mermaid, blurry, under the water... Disney princesses my *** head over feet... now... that's a song.
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62
I've been a million things in my life, And worn a million faces like masks in an eighteenth century opera house where they tell you to scream like you mean it and whispers are never heard because the crowd is already on their feet and the roses smell too sweet. But today I wear nothing but my ego, My ego, So Jungian, Freudian, the sought-after prize of a million men who won't ever compete with my constellation scars or the sharp sound of my teeth clicking together in a cruel grin. You hate girls that strut like they're concrete because you broke them all before, Because they're lies and false gods and you swear that youth today are all spat words and flying ***** not given. I'm not youth today, I'm an age-old god of war and pride and I'll cut you down like a whisper in the wind if you try my patience... Because what is death if not being forgotten? I'll forget you, if you try my patience. I've forgotten a million fragile egos and I'll crumble your concrete into pixelated dust like a million tiny claps in an eighteenth century opera house that can't tell if the blood on my hands is real. I've been a million things in my life, But I'm finally the one that matters: unforgettable.
0
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
Forgettable
this flourishing silence feels more of a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint. my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap and my mind starts to spill like a spigot left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing away in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl of the well-oiled tractor in front of me. the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender stems bones of the young. I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts neatly trimmed just above knobby knees and I know somewhere in that tender flesh, a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured procurement of today’s induced comatose is but a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique is a chauvinistic man drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati. each slapdash word in penitent reprisal is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings of a chagrined mother startled back to her home; it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence of two people starting to fall in love: all chaotic and unmoving, fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes, wishing to be somewhere else but there.
0
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
They Were Vehicles Trapped Underneath The Sun
.                              Freud                         FreudFreud                        Freud  Freud                        Freud   Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud                         Freud Freud              FreudFreud      Freud Freud           Freud Freud F  reudFreudFreud          Freud Freud Fr   eud     F r e u d            Freud Freud       Freud Freud                Freud                     Freud
0
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Freudian ****
To taste you is to slip into that Freudian pit, and turn a baby still ****** fixed: To tongue out the parts that might identify you fully
0
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
To taste you is to slip into
It was the rain against the windows And the moonlight sonata playing That accompanied my transition Into melancholy insomnia In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky The reading of books and Freudian dreams The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all Where emotions are captured and paraphrased Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time All dissimilar reinventions Swirling in the incense smoke rings Dancing in the flowing spirit air Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes Memories recall the rain of Pasadena Over rustic-themed modernism for Eager tourists and the nonchalant few Whispering words to descend the stairs From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside Years ago in the same position But younger than I am now At another desk with a bleeding pen Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows Something hidden underneath the seen frailty Single mothers courting hairless young men Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own Act of demon from the hand of God Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all; the men can take a turn in bearing the small. Tales written from reflection and soul Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick The dead that laugh and the living that cry Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe Like so many humans do
0
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
Silver-skin Reflection
i just realized that i spent another entire day subconsciously chanting to myself that i am a piece of **** i have no reason to think this. i am a beautiful, intelligent redhaired spitfire and i'm not afraid to say any of those things people don't say those things to themselves enough but why the **** do i constantly remind myself all day that i am a piece of **** who is telling me this and why do i believe it?
0
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
freudian slip
I took a class in psychology, But who could ever hope to know The inner wanderings of a lost soul, The mechanisms making you tick, You, conflicting conundrums and Cautious contradictions... You have classically conditioned my mind To fumble over your chapter, With your classical ways.. Heuristics never applied to you, You are Freudian; hopelessly undefinable And impossibly right
0
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Freudian
Do you find it boring to spell out the word "subconscious"? Not the way I spell it. Many step onto the first "S" as if it were a ***** rain puddle, but I'm sufficiently alert and can see that one must dive into the word's application, nimbly rummage through the annals of its history before conducting one word in or against its favor. Glide downward through the rhythmically breathing curves of the voluptuous prefix, "sub-", as you begin dreaming further down towards the comatose of the rickety construction that is your superego, to the "you" no one knows about in clear daylight (even the mirror). Minor turbulence may occur within the rest, "-conscious", just a few jagged rocks stirred into Cloud Nine to alter your perceptions like a face hit by a bus. This is the meat of your matter, the acidic ruptures that only the most cunning infiltrators can identify and nudge with their index fingers using a painful precision, the ***** band of undergarments that always seem to loiter behind in the town laundromat. But a jagged rock is a jagged rock, never eternally bordering the outline of the planet, just lodged within the corners of your comfort zone, their presence a necessary evil for the times you must steer through the swarms of cataracts and endure the exrcuciating agony of becoming a better human being. You launch yourself from your adolescent crutches like the roots of teeth erupting from the base of the jaw and prevent single definition, hack away the tentacles of emotional paralysis, by remembering to mend the tear between two polar halves, "sub conscious." Under your false promises, your Freudian timeline, your ever-quivering Id... every single one of you.
0
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Spelling Bee
Do you find it boring to spell out the word "subconscious"? Not the way I spell it. Many step onto the first "S" as if it were a ***** rain puddle, but I'm sufficiently alert and can see that one must dive into the word's application, nimbly rummage through the annals of its history before conducting one word in or against its favor. Glide downward through the rhythmically breathing curves of the voluptuous prefix, "sub-", as you begin dreaming further down towards the comatose of the rickety construction that is your superego, to the "you" no one knows about in clear daylight (even the mirror). Minor turbulence may occur within the rest, "-conscious", just a few jagged rocks stirred into Cloud Nine to alter your perceptions like a face hit by a bus. This is the meat of your matter, the acidic ruptures that only the most cunning infiltrators can identify and nudge with their index fingers using a painful precision, the ***** band of undergarments that always seem to loiter behind in the town laundromat. But a jagged rock is a jagged rock, never eternally bordering the outline of the planet, just lodged within the corners of your comfort zone, their presence a necessary evil for the times you must steer through the swarms of cataracts and endure the exrcuciating agony of becoming a better human being. You launch yourself from your adolescent crutches like the roots of teeth erupting from the base of the jaw and prevent single definition, hack away the tentacles of emotional paralysis, by remembering to mend the tear between two polar halves, "sub conscious." Under your false promises, your Freudian timeline, your ever-quivering Id... every single one of you.
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77
You break into my psyche uninvited and don't give me a choice but to see what you see and feel what you feel. And you make sure i know That you live for the feeling my lips bring You smile at my Freudian slips And as long as your arms contain all of me, You're sure you can go on
0
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
Psychotic Break
born of blood from a thorn of a beautiful flower from the love of the horned adorned in power cowering in the vicious maliciousness of the constituents in the deliverance to my ridiculousness saw twisted shapes and contorting faces heard blurred words displaced in hateful slurs of aggression and i cannot count the cases in my tasteless confessions in my reluctant concessions in my brutal perfection of my obsessions imposed against my will you're supposed to feel what they do right? opposed to killing for the thrill but it sometimes just feels right shanky gone unscrupulous shivering his shimmied blood on the walls stuttering stanleys still silly stringing calling for candy but missed last call and fell to the floor as Bruno butchered the boar in a deplorable fashion a crime of passion we were hungry rubbing our tummies for the honey of bee hives jive turkeys turning to bunnys for good times but we were alive while others were not fraught with darkling majesty sparkling at the seraded points disjointed in Freudian ointments self anointed as god standing over some butchered brod from abroad wiping the fog of dislodged eye sockets from my grog how you get from there to here isn't really a fair mirror on my intention i meant to suspend her just enough to face f--k and with luck strangle her but she prayed to be ripped down in her own way my f--king way stripped her of dignity wimpering in little cute sounds who am i? but the guy who spaced hit her too many times in the face and replaced her facelessness with ***** toiletries disappointingly underwhelmed still in search of a fairy to take the helm and ferry me from this film disparagingly just spare me the tragedy and grief blaring from the TV as i mock their expressions in my lessons of humanity before the flock to shelter my anxiety or not gonna be a real boy one day and conform to the wayward ways the way of sheep sleeping soundly in decay blue fairy gonna marry me one day be real one day one day 1 d a y
0
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
[Blue Fairy]
born of blood from a thorn of a beautiful flower from the love of the horned adorned in power cowering in the vicious maliciousness of the constituents in the deliverance to my ridiculousness saw twisted shapes and contorting faces heard blurred words displaced in hateful slurs of aggression and i cannot count the cases in my tasteless confessions in my reluctant concessions in my brutal perfection of my obsessions imposed against my will you're supposed to feel what they do right? opposed to killing for the thrill but it sometimes just feels right shanky gone unscrupulous shivering his shimmied blood on the walls stuttering stanleys still silly stringing calling for candy but missed last call and fell to the floor as Bruno butchered the boar in a deplorable fashion a crime of passion we were hungry rubbing our tummies for the honey of bee hives jive turkeys turning to bunnys for good times but we were alive while others were not fraught with darkling majesty sparkling at the seraded points disjointed in Freudian ointments self anointed as god standing over some butchered brod from abroad wiping the fog of dislodged eye sockets from my grog how you get from there to here isn't really a fair mirror on my intention i meant to suspend her just enough to face f--k and with luck strangle her but she prayed to be ripped down in her own way my f--king way stripped her of dignity wimpering in little cute sounds who am i? but the guy who spaced hit her too many times in the face and replaced her facelessness with ***** toiletries disappointingly underwhelmed still in search of a fairy to take the helm and ferry me from this film disparagingly just spare me the tragedy and grief blaring from the TV as i mock their expressions in my lessons of humanity before the flock to shelter my anxiety or not gonna be a real boy one day and conform to the wayward ways the way of sheep sleeping soundly in decay blue fairy gonna marry me one day be real one day one day 1 d a y
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