"oedipal" poems
.*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!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
**** Smartphones.
They're ******* stupid.
Orwellian and Oedipal.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Pull
the
trigger
*****
Russian roulette
with your best friend
Your mind
Your weapon
set
to
self-destruction
Blowing it's load
In the face
of Mother Nature
The all organic
*** dumpster
Where you abort
your best ideas
for fear they'll
take over
Without you
and your
mother *******
Oedipal complex
We would never be here
trying to go back in time
again
We would never be here
blowing our minds
back to Nirvana
We would never be here
if it wasn't
for a trigger-finger
itch
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
*two bottles of 70cl whiskey later and a few beers, popping sleeping pills for an actual effect worked with (it's ten past five p.m., i'm already mentioning ~ eleven minutes to midnight, so wait)... you get the shovel and broom ushering the ***** drinkers from a town centre in Leicester or Norwich; or you implant a hope to live in Scandinavia; you're basically laughing with a russian at that point: 'eh eh, where's lithuania?' 'ah **** it's next to yuri reciting poetry on the laika satellite.' 'thought so.' german started from monkeys, sent one into space... slavs started with dogs... like all good people, i would too have kept the cats grounded in atmosphere; well, the oedipal riddle began with a sphinx, so i'm more than ready for the cerberus.*
i'm not going to repent for
my alcoholic metabolism,
i'll wait till you turn into ostriches
ostricizing vegans for anaemia
and bulimia and the london fashion show;
bullseye market that cares for
diaphragms and diabetes; sure the arabs
are alcohol free, but diabetic
looking into the sand dunes like looking
at dunes of sugar.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
A pastel blue backdrop
behind three glass frames
not a cloud in the sky
not a plane flying by
Yet I cannot learn to love
the sky without the trails
smoky puffs of vapour
line a day with uncertainty
For a blue sky is bland
without the odd trace
of imperfection, even
birds in formation become
the aforementioned.
"I can't stand to sing
the same song the same way
two nights in succession"
Routine it seems is its
own imperfection.
Give me a grey sky in June
And thunder in peace
A stark croaking crow
Can be sheer bliss
All things aligned,
Excitements amiss
For the brain needs
A puzzle, a challenge...
Confrontation, **** your
Hollywood films and
Normalisation, your
predictable habits
And false gestation;
Astro-Turf fields
And palm tree islands,
Man-made beaches
And glacier skylines
Synthetic audio
and bastardisation
of the arts, your
contempt for nature
Shall be your Achilles
for the world we live in,
the forests and canopy's
are the very providers
Of human abilities,
rid us of them and face
extinction, this is the
nature of colonisation.
The earth which houses us
is not formulaic, It's a collision
of astronomic proportions
every detail as vital as another
Mankind can be primal, Oedipal
and graceless, but respecting your
home is not an optional gift, for
we cannot survive as a species adrift.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
A surrender to the Supermoon
The larger than life presence
Plucking my heart strings
Got me caught up
In a dark **** fantasy
About a little death and rebirth
If I go down
it better be on the divine mother
Level: Oedipal
Submission towards her power stance
slipping my fingers up Mother Nature's dress
In child's pose
Inhaling her presence
she pulls me to the clouds
to get to the Holy **** of the sky
*To be the ************
Tracing infinity loops with my tongue
trying to see how many licks it takes
to get to the center of innocence
Back to before it all began to end
Flooding the floors
She bathes me in moonlight
The illumination marinates my little transgressions
Drowning out the light pollution
Purifying my mind
with the ***** things she whispers
Swaddled up in a bulletproof aura
Swallowed whole by the void of existence
I've never felt more secure
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
well, the Oedipal resurrection is a real
chestnut, what a spectrum!
at one end Edward Gein (the acid)
via 7 of pH scaling
and at the other Kaiser Wilhelm (the alkali),
and all those madmen in between,
what traffic! well, someone has to be sick
for someone else to earn wages, ha ha!
testicles in Tchaikovsky's nutcracker,
enter Santa Clause in soprano singing:
** ** ** that's what happens with Oedipus
resurrected, why not resurrect Hercules?
you sick or something? they rather resurrect
Oedipus than Christ to create the Antichrist...
the sickness spreads.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
what i understand as a definition of
the word complex,
it requires a hyphen as a
pseudo conjunction, in that it
coordinates words in opposition,
which is why freud's right on the
money with the madonna-whore
complex, but completely bonkers
with his oedipal fetishes,
because oedipus is a complex in itself
that cannot be excavated
and theorised for the sake of a
analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism
that might plagiarise awry,
for all orthodox necessities:
a complex is aqua- -marine
aquamarine... but in terms of theory
it's evident that the hyphen usage
is still retained, before everything
goes **** up perfect *** **** of
compounding the two words like a german:
Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication),
der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!'
'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.'
'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go:
fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.'
the operation was a success, apart from
the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body;
and i never understood why people
expect you to talk to them face-to-face
like you're reading autocue, the minute
you talk imagining off empty space
to invent a new language of comfort
they equate you with autism...
i once had a glance at psychiatric notes
sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general
practitioner)... psst... they only care
about whether:
a. you're able to keep eye contact
b. you're / you're not biting your nails...
but that's what you get, the welfare state
policy of funding distribution of the infamous
n.h.s. (national health service)...
****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting
mind from body like the brain is some
gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for
thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into
psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into
prescriptions for pensioners demanding ******
i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic,
hence their appeal to autistic children,
or just anyone not really into leashes, being
tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come
7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes
that they blend in will flowers, and when awake,
yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's
extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called...
ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck
a million swans with broken necks.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
1.
My mother hates me!
My father hates me!
Oedipus screams to the
stealthily silent Sphinx.
He scatters riddles like laurel leaves
waiting to be braided into
a playwright's crown. It is too
grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.
His unconscious mind flies open
like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky.
Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat
steadily to reach titanic heights.
Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus
cannot know himself. Before the
Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels,
unexamined by his bleeding eyes.
2.
Freud exults in triumph.
Maternal love births eternal love:
endless comfort and affection
for the newly bloomed beloved.
Soon, comfort metamorphoses
into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable,
beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil.
Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.
Jacosta embraces her son
as her new living king, her husband's
royal blood bubbling brazenly
on the bitter road to Thebes.
His hands stained, Oedipus strives
to transmute his trauma as our own.
We become him when Freud deigns
to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.
Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union
with the mother, lethal rage against
the father. Mourning Becomes Electra
beckons to the wary second ***
3.
The Sphinx belies its own riddle:
How can prophecy spring from
the sculpted, smooth stone
of these perfect *******
Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths
of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded,
action lies blinded by the ventricles of
violence, the twisted telos of the mind.
Humans sin against the world, against
nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without
a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****
mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
my past is filled with oedipal encounters:
many men i needed to rival
today i unintentionally travelled (really?)
today i involuntarily travelled (no way)
today i travelled into my past:
memories of many men that i needed to rival.
due to my fatherless childhood i didn't have
a man to compete against; that's why i JUMPED at countless chances to do so. none of these conflicts happened by chance.
i picked strangers to compete against.
but then there was this day. a certain day. a secret night.
since then, i have gradually and later on gently overcome my need to compete.
i was bewildered today because i competed against another man. why?
out of the dark, i developed an affection for a woman younger than me; a brief moment of ****** interest. the competitor involved walked her home after a meeting the three of us had been together.
while they were strolling down the street, i followed them. i wanted to see what they were doing. i wanted to observe how they observed each other's attraction.
did so for a couple of minutes; they didn't take notice of me; or they were playing dead while their mouths were overfilled with squishing sounds of saliva.
and then –– as promptly as old patterns of rivalry had emerged ––
i lost my affection for this young woman.
affection left my soul like a spirit leaves a dead body. the affection vanished into thin air since it couldn't find a shelter in my soul. so this wired affection went on a quest for another creature.
i didn't say goodbye. just wrote something down.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 7:43 AM UTC
As they grew older they grew further away
Withholding their love
Remote, with apparently little to say
No words, no tears, no kind of stuff
Falling from their distant lives
Living with new thoughts, lovers, wives.
A troupe of sons, gambling with time!
Alexander was a rotten son of a brilliant father
Misled by a mother’s lies
Into an oedipal outrage. Spurred to violence, rather
Then be a man he became a legend, pursued by biting flies.
Betrayal often leads to success,
The betrayer a psychological mess.
The love of a child evaporates
Evident in the lives of kings
The urge for power saturates
Ignores duty, gratitude, those kind of things.
But hell! So what?
We once, objects of their beaming infant smiles, received such a lot.
OK, Richard the First left his father to die alone,
John ripped the money from the dead man’s purse,
They then fought each other for the throne
Making a family feud undeniably worse.
Throughout history, the mothers taking new ambitious lovers
Caused greater angst amongst whole generations of brothers.
Families are rarely friends: brother fights brother
Sister quarrels with sister, battling incessantly,
Despising each carefully chosen lover
Examining each other critically.
The success of one initiates gloom,
A show of brilliance, a thunderous rain-wrenched boom.
Compared to great and legendary figures
Our problems are played out beneath a dimmer light
We drown our thoughts with liquor
Squabble like screeching bats in the night
No grabbing of swords, fastening of armour, beribboned horses
Our mundane arguments have tiny causes.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
Threading tapestries
the tethered sparrow
laments the absent scream.
Imbrued admissions
of his Oedipal anguish
clenched in callous fist
spills claret. Erubescent sobriquets
and uterine trauma
blot leaves, and the pale palour
first kissed, then rouged by rancour,
a blush rose
blooming faintly
in the shade of vitriol.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
In the garden of our living
The root chokes the vine
Energy is chemical, and so is time
In the garden of our living
The wise ones pick the ripe
Cause the ground has chemicals, and shifts to the wrong side
In the garden of our living
The special sell divine
All their words have chemicals, an owls hoot their lies
In the garden of our living
Not a creature cares for why
We are nothing but chemicals, each an oedipal eye
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
last night i dreamt in one hundred years—or maybe Tuesday
(something close to an emotional green) with my wings, green-wings, solid feet,
a ****** of crows, & bluebird things
a thing lives inside of me: a barnacle surface, broomy orange, windy love, a natural disaster—i think a hurricane
between lust and between gators, these origins of sweets from a great war, helium-ballooned a golden crown into my iron bear mussels
a november cliff forged a giant's causeway; crystals bestowed on the honeywells, a giant's love of separation—we are all a salmon skin,
a fiery light, limestone a buck and a half in our sour grasps
last night i dreamt i saw the giants
they roared like lions, crushed ghost shrimp with their feet and laid their moss
inside of my navel where i used to hide rivers
a thing lives inside of me: it crashes, wrinkles into a beast, grimaces an Oedipal song, plays Saturn games, it rings
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC