Thursday, March 24, 2016

A Poem by Guy Thorvaldsen

The Death of Freud

He was dropping to his death.
It was in a castle,
so the floor was stone.
Still, the fall took time,
a decidedly measured descent.
Meanwhile, I hovered
in the corner of the room.
Beneath me stretched
Freud's half-dressed wife.
First I tried using my hands,
then my probing penis
but was unable to penetrate
her thick leather knickers.
We gave up.
She wasn't into it.
But Freud was definitely dead.

Guy Thorvaldsen's poetry has appeared in Alembic, The Aurorean, Forge, Gulfstream, Zone 3, Poet Lore, and Verse Wisconsin.  He received his MFA from Vermont College and teaches English at Madison College in Madison, Wisconsin.  He is also a journeyman carpenter, husband, father, and contributing poet/essayist for public radio.

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