Thursday, August 3, 2017

Acute Aversion

Goosed by the Freudian principle that
what one mightily claims to detest may in fact
be what vitally one most desires, most
of the Creatures residing inside him began
to devise what they thought would be wise ways

of torturing him, by providing the vividest visions
of what he can’t stand: in their belief that by
driving him mad he would reach a catharsis –
releasing the largest out-pour he’d yet known
of imprisoned potential: they audibly groan

with this prospect so loudly he thinks it’s his
own grumpy bowels. What his creatures are sure
is his most covert love is his most overt hatred
of anything “cute.” One after another they’d
send up their sweetest most heart-wrenching

plump heffalumps from the cuddly snugglery
where more and more would await to be let
through the gate to implore their new savior
to savor abjectly adorable sentimentality. Now
he hates them in what has become his intensely

demented reality: he sadistically crumples each
sketch in a fist – impales the crunched paper on
sticks, row and row of which, speared with their
quarry like new-severed heretic heads, line his
lawn in a grave conflagration. One by one they’re

consumed in the flames. He defames them with loud
incantations he’s sure will arouse and awaken
the minions of Satan to come and assist in defeating
this scourge of The Cute. He meets with success:
his urges to purge are completely assuaged.

The fires he lit quite effectively rage to consume
them. Now nothing can ever exhume them – or him.
Art is exceedingly dangerous. Be here warned
to avoid what this verse has implicitly, torridly
drawn as its moral: never read Freud.


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