A painted lady on a fine white horse,
What Freudian images do there so convene—
But too enunciate aloud, of course,
Would be at best a slight, at worst, demean;
Perhaps to sit side saddle would outbid
Rebuke from psychoanalytic eyes
Yet who of balanced conscience would forbid
That she embrace the steed with open thighs?
Of human purpose when we so propose
Subconscious method unto every act,
There reading thus beneath the lines disclose
Attempts to thrust in bias, or so redact;
Where courser be a stallion, or yet as ass,
Anima unveiled by how we so assess.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
