Sometimes Freud is Just a Penis


goblin dreams chasing me through dark shadow
corridors, fetid breath hot on my heels
spiky claws in my flesh and teeth gnashing—
I should know better than ice cream at night,
its sugar rush and crash plunging me too fast
into fitful sleep. and always boschesque
dreams with stark mix of image, the frog-headed
bird, our pastor, these bat-eared parishioners
taking unholy communion of starfish
host and the wine is blood is blood flowing
in rivulets through the isles—I’m up the crick
there’s no paddle in the world for paddling
or navigating this river of rabid
clowns dancing in these midnight A&P isles.

David M Pitchford
30 Nov 2011

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2 thoughts on “Sometimes Freud is Just a Penis

    • that was so long ago, Ina, I don’t remember.
      it was the icecream an hour before bed that did it, I’m almost certain. That and Mercury retrograde and sun flares and the goblin under my bed. and the Freud in my head . . .
      thanks, by the way, the title was the most challenging part of the poem. I felt kind of frightened keeping it, truth to tell, but the poem refused any other title.

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