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.

Of Your Twilight, the Darkness

Shadows can’t be without light… just like me. Without you, twisting my limbs in our secret garden of little deaths, I can’t find the Self that makes Me. In the Solstice of my tale, you are Sun—growth and blaze, life… and the rest. I know you fear full night. I taste the truth in words you touch to my lips, in caresses you banter to keep, in every rebel gasp my voice rips out of that bit in your mind you’ve wished didn’t whole who you are…

let me be the heart
of your twilight, the darkness
balancing the light

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the (not so) wee notes…
– Of the Twilight the Darkness is the name of a goblin in Raising Steam, by Terry Pratchett. It’s one of my favorite names for a character… ever.
– Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Karin asked us to join her in a wee writing exercise: pick a letter, then a word, then write, write, write… Don’t erase. Don’t fix. Don’t stop and dance the Twist. Fine, I lied about the dancing restriction. So, dance wildly if you want. I always do. It is great for the ink. After dancing like the happiest of all writing maniacs, I chose the letter “S”… “Shadows” danced out of my pencil… and I wrote about Shadow and Light and Solstice and Love and Balance… The poem you’ve just read is the Heart and Soul and Center of the wild draft.

click HERE to see the complete stitched poem bit

Once, I Had Poetry for Breakfast (and for Tea)

I let my breakfast sit for too long and it turned to vine.

nature breeds
wild spidery phonies
on fall weeds

my tea leaves
spring hearts, to help me
warm winter

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the wee notes…
– I wrote the one-liner this morning, when I reached for a chayote to have for breakfast, and realized it had decided to grow itself a tree. The senryū and haiku, I wrote sometime last month. In the original version of the haiku, the third line includes the phrase “the fall”. I changed it for “winter” because, well… it’s quite frosty outside and my tea knows it.
– for Poets United.