"psychoanalysis" poems
As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
we are angels
with cathedrals,
prophets, and poems
to prove it
other species
are not endowed
with such gifts:
the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel
the pyramids, loosing
the bounds of earth
to walk on a moon...
psychoanalysis
the atomic bomb
Anthrax, dioxin
and gunfire
gunfire
we are maggots
on rotting fruit, sated now
looking for a place to hop off,
to escape before the fruit falls fast
to the ground
before the oceans rise
and the skies fill with ash
surely we can fly away
but we are wingless
angels, killer angels
killer angels
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
dear immoral,
salt
seed of
s
la
ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
gives callously
equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
each persnickety biochemistry
is the
longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
No content,
j
us
t web,
you
r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
agile
computation
today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
trembling
je
we
ler
confidant loves increasingly
languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor ***********
perpetual on my
quick
bible;
my psychotherapy roves
into a
bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
psychoanalysis's
preferably quick
psych
otherapy-
how
ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
he
unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
overshadows
his youth
so
that it is contemporary
grin
quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
into appreciated ca
mar
aderies
psychotherapies rove in
my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
grip
of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
on my quick bible;
my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
journey;
my
paralysis ambles
onto a
crazy hotel.
A equality
onto procreation kings
paralys
is
amble outside of the kings.
Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
how often good Christians offer to hold us in prayer
friends of the ill, they intend well
I don't refuse, of course
Father catechized He was everywhere -
in flowers and butterflies, even all living things
so when He seemed never to notice the obvious
I'd squeeze my brow tight
as if the effort might shine invisible light
bright enough to be seen at universal distance...
my prayer
awaking mornings still cradled
safe in the branch of a tree
or folded in the back seat of our van,
alone
in the dark, no more a devil,
even I've heard the whispered words
of "Our Father..."
but we both know Jesus gave up his practice
of psychoanalysis long ago
so I wasn't surprised - just disappointed
when each resurrection of hope died
now I'd rather mop,
having collected an assortment
of surfactants and disinfectants suitable
for a wide variety of household surfaces
killing the unsuspecting bacterium,
allergen or virus
I set blossoms in a sterile vase at bedside
by her arrangement of amber pill bottles
they'll wilt; I'll empty
a prayer she doesn't notice
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
For Christmas
I would like a terrarium
So that in a small space where there is little to breathe and most die slowly and in pain
I shall make something beautiful contained within itself
And it shall never need to meet the outside world.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
All my life I'd been starving.
This world offered me feasts after
Feasts but it seemed that even if
I swallowed the whole Earth
I'd still hunger.
One day a witch approached me
Promised me a magic sack,
That with the right nourishment,
Wouldn't ever empty
'Till I die.
All she asked for in return
Were descriptions of dishes.
Their taste, shape, smell, in detail.
For she can only eat
This way.
And so I complied with it, gratefully.
She casted charms, ordered me to eat:
"Just open your mouth, it's there."
Feeling groggy, I reached.
I felt it.
So marvellous, juicy, so fresh.
I praised that new found piece of flesh.
She smiled. "Dig deeper", she prompted.
So I'd broken my jaw,
Ecstatically.
Then licked the blood off my chin,
It was sweet and sour, just served.
How much further must I dig
For this feast's main course?
My beating
Heart.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
i'm seeing a psychoanalytic therapist
they want to analyze me
because my so called life has turned into the scariest
and somehow in a country of freedom i can't be free
they want to analyze me like a mathematician
analyzes the graph of an unknown function
psychiatric ward it says in the papers for my admission
i'm not crazy somebody please give me a definition
how do you think you can analyze a human
you can't look inside my mind
where all my thoughts are blooming
creating my emotions, feelings or something of an other kind
why do all my actions need a reason
how do you know i didn't write that poem
just to show them how i see the world
it doesn't necessarily mean i'm broken
just because you do not understand
doesn't mean I suffer from some unknown disease
why analyze a masterpiece
cause that's what every single human is
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
marketing work stalls imagination,
the benefits of the internet are
that you can bypass all that marketing
and become fudge stuck cancerous
in a spider-web of your own choosing
debated as either giving or
marketing... but given this is a century
later, marketing stalls work...
i'd hate to be an allen ginsberg with
only one poem associated with my
creative output... how it's "necessary"
to congregate and carve out
a one-hit-wonder...
if plumbers and roofers and electricians
were treated like that...
we'd have one drainage pipe,
one roof, one light-bulb used by
a population the size of new york...
oh yeah, that would really work!
one toilet for a bully like napoleon
and about 10,000 soldiers ******** their pants;
indeed the modern concept of sharing
original work is like the old concept
of marketing... although in this new concept
no one earns anything of value
that can be readily exchanged -
time isn't readily exchanged, space is
inevitably exchanged, but time isn't -
an hour of psychoanalysis at £100, e.g.,
a free poem, no poet at a party drunk with recitation...
win win!
what's that game... a ping pong table
with cups filled with alcohol lined up like
bowling-alley pins, throwing ping-pong *****
into the opponent's bowling-pin arrangements...
jägermeister o'clock... chug chug chug!
well done; go puke in the toilet...
i'm going to walk home and have a sing-along alone.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, psycho-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
The Old Testament;
psychoanalysis;
Communism & interest
are blamed on the world
Zionist conspiracy;
a secret cabal of Jewish
bankers behind the scenes
controlling events is
hard to argue w/;
Catholicism & the Mafia
peacefully coexisting w/
drugs, prostitution & ******
there are still saints among us
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
ever hear blood turning
black while sizzling
on the frying-pan of synapses?
i once had an airy / ethereal
substance i designated to
a couplet of thought and soul
(so, so at ease with it);
but as i asked, the question
states a new couplet: the elemental
change from airy / ethereal
into electric - which designates
the loss of thought, replaced by
animation and the soul still intact,
because what once was thought
became a nobler pain i treated
as a vox ex paradox - a stoic impression.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
socrates was executed in democracy, de facto argumentation in favour of democracy as utopian or workable utopian is flawed; it's like the equivalent of advertisement (2d) of dog food (3d).
the most uniform definition of oursevles
based on the unitary currency,
when faced with what is a priori
to what’s relatable is crafted
by: machina ex non-ego,
i.e. the machinery we submit to,
even though we were not involved in constructing
the machinery... we have to identify ourselves...
nonetheless...
the kantian concept of a priori and a posteriori
is limited in the greek deus ex machina
and the hyphenated expression:
a- priori and a- posteriori (the a- of atheism, i.e. without).
but imagine it simpler:
machinery not from me... tax credit breaks...
the traffic code... morality of any sort...
the need for pyramids...
it’s not the socratic inquiry of knowing yourself...
it’s about finding yourself...
that’s where psychoanalysis becomes crucial...
if you want to define the ego ex machina
you’ll get the upright citizent...
you want the machina ex ego... you will not get
any stability, and freudian / jungian judas selling theorem
like typing in the digit that was designated a repetitive index...
you’ll just get an individuation of the individual will...
shortened to: ‘what’s your ******* problem,
care to wear my shoes and walk a mile in them?!’
all crimes are commited on the basis of ego ex machina...
all coformity is based on the machina ex non-ego
(the communism of marx lived by all the slavs
in the 20th century... all the capitalistic intervetion
from adam smith...
odd that democracy should be coupled to capitalism...
and that the chaos of democracy should
eat the only political counter known as republicanism
with the economic model of republicanism as
communism becoming extinct due to john paul ii);
america never wants to export
republicanism, the good politics of rome...
always the **** part of ancient greece...
imagine how the elders of afghanistan will
accept the politics of youth (democracy)
should ancient standards be replaced by experimentation...
exporting democracy and not accepting
the republicanism of specified geographic regions
will always lead to mini-wars all the ****** time...
try exporting american republicanism...
oh right... afghani republicanism thinks
it's superior... and democracy just becomes
the no-man's land in belgium
between the dug-up trenches of the brits and the germans.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
Like a well oiled engine, my heart whirrs in pleasure at your sight
Found a biker boy and rode into the sunset
I'm a ship honey. Take me from my harbor
A sailor caught my helm and sailed into the horizon
Are you a black hole? Because you **** me in.
The physicist sat me on his lap and we got lost in space
Are you Messi ? Because I'm a Ballon d'or.
Shots were fired. Goals were scored. And they ruled the field together.
I have reached the top tier of Maslow's needs.
After extensive psychoanalysis, we found our counselors in each other.
If you're a rebuttal point, I'll always have you covered.
She and the debater found their grey patch amidst the black and white.
I'll make you a sandwich if you are male, white and a misogynist.
She found love with the racist and waited on him hand and foot.
I'll draw your heart with HB pencils and make an acrylic out of our relationship.
The artist found her bluetiful and incRedible.
I'm a South Indian who loves dosa, an uneducated Bihari, the patanjali promoting Hindu, the Muslim terrorist, the Christian converter, the Russian spy, the fake Chinese, the blond cheerleader, the ladyless female football player, the classy British, the poor illiterate, the fat American, the mannerless slum dweller, the conservative Indian woman, the dumb **** the unromantic geek, the bald science teacher, the old librarian, the charisma less nerd......
Stereotype found it's soulmate and lived happily ever after.
I fall in love with words. Ink is my blood. Emotions and thoughts are my food.
The poet smirked and said," Haha! Nice try."
~Pacific Wolf
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
your hands are cold
and they don't fit in mine
our fingers struggle to make the fit
your face jumps from sweet relaxation
to indignant self defense
and psychoanalysis
you always struggle to say the right thing
but usually
you are dumb
you're slowly opening up to me
letting me in because I'd never hurt you
unlike how you've treated me
let's hold mismatched hands
trade bits of our hearts with each other
relax and be free with me
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Why won't you let me **** you?
How much force does it take to squeeze the life out of you?
Why do you persist such agonies and endure your strife being beat down into the mud? A vortex of emotions running rampant, but in the blink of an eye, consumed and swallowed whole. Now there is an empty and sick acre. And though the leaves are green on the other side of the fence, i sit here bound to you.
Time has become a mind numbing drug that i hav egrown impervious to over the years. I no longer have the dirt left to bury you. The only hope for me was to **** you but here you persist. Neither narcotics nor psychoanalysis got rid of you. I could not fit you in any container.
Unrelenting, savage, corrupted, mauling and swiping at me. Sleep was a temporary escape but you found a way into that world as well.
It seems i will forever carry you on my shoulders. My burden to bear, my medal of shame, a trophy of my failings, a banner proudly flying in the rainy nights.
So why can't i **** you?
Is it because you are a memory?
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
*it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.*
but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Mediocre metaphors pervade my writing. Making it all the more obvious how scared I am. Too scared even to reach deep within for something original. Too scared to push the limits of existence through literature. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this rudimentary psychoanalysis is just an example of all that I have within. Others. And the love I have for them that forces me to take them inside and make parts of them exude from within me. Is it their love for me or, mine for them that keeps me alive?
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
i never understood why so much theory
and talk and psychoanalysis
went into the oedipus complex,
while the synonymous antonym of
the complex bound to Electra was
simply reduced to the spectrum
of onomatopoeias of a woman having ***
why did men require long hours
spent on a couch and women got away
with about an hour of ***********
before either party reached the summit
of ***********
i guess in woman's egoism, i'm still
but a ***** and she, a god **** inviting me
to obstruct interpreting life by interpreting dreams.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
I let the darkness
seep into my skin
as if it would stop
my bones from rattling.
Babbling sirens pierce my ears
forgetting what the morning brings,
I hear nothing but the psychoanalysis
of my own lips breathing out nonsense.
Expectations dangle from the ceiling
blocking out all the light from the moon
enlisting its own doom
into my growing pores.
They reach for sadness like sunlight
a direct way to feel again,
despite my echoing cries
they continue to try and be something.
My body aches of its own type of arthritis,
derived from the weight of surviving,
years of looking for a way out
wore on my joints like sandpaper.
So I erode,
tiny flecks of golden dust
fall to the floor as I walk,
glowing in the hue of dusk reclining
itself into my chest.
I am left with the dread of failure
and regrets I know best
waiting for the dawn to support me,
but the darkness lasts for days.
I wait
and I wait,
and eventually the sun will rise
and I will be okay.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch
This is not what I need . . .
anal-ysis,
paralysis,
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
supported
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****
Originally published by Unlikely Stories. Keywords/Tags: analysis, paralysis, psychoanalysis, words, nourishing, cherishing, essential, love, muck, **** ***
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 3:03 AM UTC