Our first years pass in Freudian bliss.
We are all there is apart from sex,
which is all around. It offers itself
from mother, food
and everything else. Sadly,
the innocent joys of childhood
do not linger on into sexless
sex-obsessed adolescence,
when we slaver like Pavlovian dogs
over every unapproachable wet dream
that rings the bell
of our uncontrollable responses. Desperate
to leave this phase behind,
we are powerless in its grip until
the coming, premature or not,
of sober Jungian middle age
with all of its possibilities
for personal growth
and confrontations with our anima,
while we secretly, doggedly,
salivate over lost childhood.
(from “Seneca the Spin Doctor, Acumen Publications, 2001)
Poetry, poem, speculative poetry, science fiction poetry, Australian poetry, British poetry
S.C. Flynn 