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.

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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.

Out of Nature’s Bones

I was rambling about my hate-hate relationship with winter, when a lady said, “I know what you mean. These damn months always remind me of getting ugly and dying.” The comment caught me by surprise. Not only because the lady had no idea what I meant (I just hate cold weather), but because I have never equated getting old with ugliness. Beauty changes with time, that’s true… but time doesn’t kill beauty. Only people do that.

Anyhoo, here is a haiku trio that embraces beauty that comes with time:

after the first spring,
new miracles do flourish
out of Nature’s bones

the sun shines
in the fallen leaves
of New York

time-caressed blossoms
evolve under winter’s kiss,
showing new beauty

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for Poets United.