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.

Storm

It’s raining white cold in my bit of New York City. Looking out of my balcony window, I see the bare limbs of my favorite trees through a curtain of white dust. I dream of going out to play, of letting winter’s kiss flush my cheeks, of catching snowflakes on my tongue while giggling cackles to the sky. But since the snow is falling too hard, I postponed my wintry dreams… and played with my Edgar Allan Poe’s and Sigmund Freud’s magnetic poetry kits. I used the kits to create a wee poem for the Imaginary Garden (Play It Again, Toads!): Words Count with Mama Zen. Also linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry 286.

“Storm”

She kisses a storm on his skin;
and in his heart
lies desire.
Storm
♥ the scarf framing the poem is knitted love from my sweet Gina
♥ her gift makes winter warm and sparkly ♥
🙂