The door is closed and the machine outside buzzes to the beat
Of a noise cancel gramophone
All I can offer you is a listener
With a heart that beats to the soft quiet sounds
Of Lacanian rhythm
And a touch of blues
The dream is in technicolor
Although your preference is black and white
Because in the old screen version
The villain is obvious
It is not you or I
But the silent shadow of M
Nosferatu, the count
Who sucks out your feelings from the
Heart that holds you tight
I listen to your words listening for the slips
Playing Lacan, the clinician’s muse
Who sings the love song of an angel
Because I can give you nothing
And what I can give you, you don’t want
All we can do is dissect the dream together
Create a tapestry
A carpet of connection, creation, the
Universe hears us, wrapping you close in the angel’s wings.
*The poem concerns the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, who was a student of Freud.
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