What If She Wakes Me Up?


 “The repressed is only cut off sharply from the ego by the resistances of repression; it can communicate with the ego through the id.”

— Sigmund Freud







overall relaxed

slightly asleep/

a swift flash vision


the sloping flanks

of my visual cortex

(what if she wakes me up?):


floating to get a good scare

they come from the inside/

from the increase of awareness

& from previous trips during

rite season & electric blizzard/

it takes me a moment/ to relate

to these creatures now

as if they won’t let me/








Peter Bies © 2010


Photography: © Peter Carstens



Eye My Floor Show

 “The ego is not sharply separated from the id; its lower portion merges into it (…). But the repressed merges into the id as well, and is merely a part of it.”

 —  Sigmund Freud





I hear a loud dog bark


my anxious my mother

come dim the lighting!

to set the mood/

family amoebas 

they followed me

in here to eye my floor show &

I don’t remember replay itself

though I thought that it would/






the hostile flickering movements

have just met some friendly ones

looking beings truly are

I have my own to follow

I have to strain to hear

my peripheral vision

it appeared as snow:


are you here again?










Peter Bies © 2010




Something That Reflects Our Shame

Poetry restores language by breaking it.

— Michael Cisco






my tongue feels dog/ & I’m not supposed

to scratch now/ I have no desire to speak/

as I try reading the walls like Spiderman/

(he vacuums the shadow people wearing

something that reflects our shame) keep

 seeing in a flash/ ten thousands of years





& I do not want to eat at all, at all!/

body part being touched feel cold

& my tongue has dull yellow eyes

& every third person that speaks

is smoothly raising her inflection

but no eyes –

I cannot see/ I’m alone & I notice

the flora pears to man o’ shadows

one is very tall & the other is part

of my body – it fills that very vein






& I am annoyed/ with float magic!

& I get up/ to parry angst-induced

shame with my tackle & wristpills

are all people like thatnot likely/

only my skin

feels foreign










Peter Bies © 2010



In CephalochromoScope*

“In art, revolution inevitably results in classicism.”

— Ossip Mandelstam






however now 

all of an instant

there’s a host of

ancient souls

floating across

my mindspace

& sharing my vision in


I remember

the dialogue

I remember

singing this feeling

& flowing smoothly

like a shadow though

I have a weak stomach

for the bugs flying around


my breathing seems

strange & ragged

















*Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly (1977), p. 26


Peter Bies © 2010 



Beyond Cortical Hinterlands

 “I don’t particularly like what’s around me.”

 — William Eggleston




& I had some pills:

antihistamine tablets




my living room is child-sized

cat scurries up off the movie

feelings as close as my eyes/

I feel a dream in the making:

& waking is difficult




 I hear footsteps upstairs 

a KKK hood moves fluidly 

& I realize I just hallucinated someone

a few more minutes now

& a sure feeling in the

crook of my arm –

just like a dream


& slow








Peter Bies © 2010



Super Unreal*

And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.

— Friedrich Nietzsche







my thoughts

are abstract &

America’s choice after going to war

is taking some kind of drug –

so why restart the disk and set it

to show just giant clear amoeba blobs? 

there’s zillions of options!

getting off the couch 

I lie on the blankets 

& my dog at my feet

I decide it’s head back

to look at me & see 

why I’m not 



this bubbling stops

this bubbling at

the ceiling 










*Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly (1977), p. 32


Peter Bies © 2010



My Eyes The Words

The very object of an art, the principle of its artifice, is precisely to impart the impression of an ideal state (…).


— Paul Valéry, The Art of Poetry 






I hear footsteps upstairs

feelings of dread along

sight of my reflection

my eyes the words

are just blurred

I shut the door

shut my eyes

cold tears 

this is not

right, but

I cannot
















Peter Bies © 2010