Consciously Unconscious

by Perel Lubel, Contributor

Inside this room, the windows have bars,
the doors have no knobs and the roof
is reinforced.

Is that a curtain I see?
Outside there is sunshine
and squirrels
and it is white. The pure white of computer paper.

So tell me, Freud, which one is real?

Is my unconscious the truth? How can you tell?

My scribbling marks may suggest
may suggest
may suggest
may suggest
the overcompensation of my crayon marking
on my white computer paper
may suggest
may suggest
may suggest

the world is still.

Inside it is a flaming mess
the screams breaking, the silver hound crying the
women chasing each other through
a forest of their yarns. The horses and
haughty people who put their family
crests on display

It is over? Has it even begun?


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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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