poem, + picture of the northern lights, unrelated (Patreon)

hello! the above is last night's light show as seen from my yard in edinburgh....very surreal. picks up much better on camera than it does to the eye so the experience had a sort of..ghost hunting quality..

i also have a poem for you! but first, two quotes from freud:

'I announce that the fetish is a substitute for the woman’s (mother’s) penis that the little boy once believed in and – for reasons familiar to us – does not want to give up.’

 'No other variation of the sexual instinct that borders on the pathological can lay so much claim to our interest as this one.’

Oblivion game

So much of it was true, Sigmund, you who pit the cherry of the conscious and tongue-tied its stem, who spoke revelations into obviousness, you king! But Doctor, your thorn. Dopamine made me a girl shaped like shame. No, the shame was a container! And I lived inside it, mute as a doll. I wore a white dress and stripped my feet bare and tapped lonely ciphers into the walls. Could you have found the story hidden in that reticence? You press your ear to the container. You listen so hard.Behind you marches a parade of shy boyfriendsmade dumb in their self-consciousness, not like you, attentive Sigmund, your cheek against the cell, moved by my secret world, my sweet female perversion, unlike these shy dumb boyfriends united against the erotic in all its ridiculous forms, Sigmund, my degeneracy is a little friend. Together we browse the internet. We have fun dreams. We wear a tiny shirt. We’re a tease. We tiptoe into the fetish club and leavenihilistically, all this heartache I’ve known, for what?Sigmund, it’s easy to play my oblivion game. Put downyour mercy. Show me your hands. My arms lift like twowands. A storyline, the loss of storyline to hot blush;imagine the entire beautiful party breathes onto your neckand into your ears, and also you’re falling forever. That’swhere I live. Here is a soul confined to the body boundto the bed damned to the planet lodged in its life –so many ways to go nowhere, Sigmund, look at allthe nothing I can do! Brief Almightiness, hiiiiii.Fantasy makes foggy the room. Gasps fill the cosmic wellof gasps. The mind falls away to some other placeand the body is an infinity of frisson. Meanwhilethe essence of the body and the essence of the mind,something like I, move together to the little yellow heaventhat glitters at the nexus of feeling, submission, and attention – your special attention, Sigmund, its bright circle, throughwhich you read my face, a treatise of sensation; I becomevery sweet with your hands on me, remade in the imageof your will. Is this tenderness, too, a pathology? Sigmund, you know what’s next, you wrote this script: imagine we’re kids. You chase me through the yard and hold meto the soft grass. Motes of dandelion flit across the time--line. I am young forever. What we are is innocent. But whatof the innocence that clings, that demands to be remembered,these geometries of shell? Are my desires a kind of hiding?How I longed to be made separate from my life,to be a preciousness cast in a loving and curious spotlight,so what I’ve become is no surprise. But why? Can this ecstasyreally be a ghost-sheet draped over some horrific absence? Good Doctor, will you hold my hair and pull the sheet aside? Will the space it hides be full of stars?