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Friday, 7 January 2022

Freud is nothing

but a parody of himself. I’m beating

the absolute crap out of my dad, using

fists, sticks, whatever comes to hand.

My fingernails show him who’s man

as they grope for his eyeballs. He doesn’t

fight back, accepts each raining blow like milk

on his tongue. The umbilical cord is round

his neck as he tries to speak, each gasping

breath grasping for something I can’t quite

make out. But nor do I care to: the time is

now. The reckoning. My mum smiles,

feints, steps into the ring.