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Masochism

It seems as if I have an enemy,

or if Freud were to
take a break from his smoky study,
putting down the cigar in the fading yellow light
of the Vienna dusk filtering
through the leaded glass windows,
and offer his input,

he might say:
It seems as if I am subconsciously
trying to sabotage myself.

Because who,
other than a self-loathing masochist,
would ever fill a jar on the bedside table
with pens
that don’t work?



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