Book, Frog, Skull, Stone, Hammer (and, oh yes, a penis bone)

The way to my heart is dark, dark,
darkness brightened by books, frogs,
skulls, and peaches my lips drink

one life-kissed poem at a time.

At 13+13+13+1+1 (love the odds),
my skull wants
wild things (horrors and bliss) inked
life that hops and transforms

like a frog (or Muse)
waiting to inspire, or birth

stories…

 

Really, my Wicked Luvs. Poetry might not be all fact, but it’s all true. For my wild-witchy-writer-heart, happiness is full of books and frogs and skulls and peach wine and hammers and stones and… after visiting The Oddities Spring Flea Market, it also contains a penis bone. By the way, when I got the penis bone, I promised I would say penis bone as often as I could.

“Penis bone,” the writer whispered while grinning like a maniac.

So… I am 41-years-delicious. I am a tad healthier than I was last year. Must thank the Universe, my Piano Man, my ink, doctors, and you… for that. My sexy flesh and bones and I are strong enough to go back to indulging in real exercises (not just those damn “therapeutic” stretches, which I’m convinced are the bastard kissing cousins of torture). A day at a time, right? Of course.

I want to show you some of my birthday gifts, because… well, I’m an Aries and according to the scientology god of memes, we Aries love showing off our skulls (I’m pretty sure I just made that up). But hey, it could be true.

The super-Girl-child, she’s just too grown up to continue being the “Little Princess”, you know? Anyhoo, the super-Girl-child made me a skull out of LEGO pieces. She said, “It’s a vampire skull, ‘cause it’s bloody. Get it?” Yep, I get it. 😀 My favorite of the gifts I got from my Piano Man is the 1st American Gods graphic novel. There was much squealing… Followed by serious cooing, when I saw the happy frog pillow case my MIL made me.

My friends from the hospital got me a wee plate, a tiny bowl, and a small glass, in celebration of going back to eating as I wish. You see, when I’m on certain meds I have to eat a lot. So, now that they’re gone, I get to eat like my wicked self likes. I prefer small portions many times a day.

A few paragraphs above, I said I was going to say penis bone as often as I could. Well, I gifted me the penis bone of a badger and an orbicular jasper stone. The stone fits perfectly in my hand. The penis bone sits rather nicely next to one of my hammers and allows me to say penis bone quite often. 😀

Rommy, did not get me a penis bone for my birthday. Nope, she got me a sledge hammer. I love it. And yes, I’ve been hitting people with it.

I didn’t hit Rommy with the hammer she got me. I didn’t even hit her with the penis bone I got for myself. I don’t think one is supposed to hit friends with one’s penis bone. Friends are for smiling like a blurry lunatic with.

See? Told you. Um… the creepy rabbit demanded to be photographed.

So, what have you been up to?

Of Blacking Out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and… a Skull-Full of Chili

I wrote a letter to Freud’s ghost, inquiring about his stance on ink. Freud’s ghost didn’t respond. But I received replies from his superego, ego, id, and… a wraith, named F. Slip, who follows Freud’s ghost around, moaning, “Are you my mummy?” The superego letter included a discount coupon to the Pi circle of laser surgery hell. The ego sent a 1001-page essay on how I hadn’t been properly potty-trained. The id wants naked photographs of my deepest inner self… in color (the word color was underlined and italicized). F. Slip wrote sex, anger, dreams, angry sex dreams, dreamy angry sex, blacked out the initial attempts (not very well), and ended with, “Are you my mummy?”

After all this, I’ve come to the conclusion that Freud’s ghost is probably too busy to care about me turning The Psychopathology of Everyday Life into blackout poetry. So, it’s getting inked… along with one of his biographies, and a half-drowned copy of Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover. It felt… appropriate.

.
some wee notes…
– for my dear Y, who asked for something hysterical that included Sigmund Freud, Doctor Who, and food that tastes yummy, but “looks slightly gross.” (Y is having stomach surgery in a couple of days, and she wanted “a riotous belly laugh” while she can still feel it in the tummy she was born with).
– I’ve always thought the superego is way too sanctimonious to actually pay attention to what’s going on. The ego is probably a mad scholar so focused on research that it can never see people. And, let’s face it, the id is a pervert. If a Freudian Slip was personified, his eternal confusion would make him a great companion for Doctor Who’s “Are you my mummy?” creepy kid.

scripts on autumned leaves
waiting for my muse and ink
to spring them anew

 

And, the slightly gross bit…

woman needs not be
a zombie to crave what lies
luscious in a skull

Y, I hope you laughed.