Armand Poetry

Welcome to Armand Poetry. The poems (and other words) here are composed for my own thought and amusement. Comment and discussion are welcome. -Amore, Armand-

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

The Final Analysis


You've gotta be fucking kidding me!

This only reaffirms my dislike for
analysts of any kind. If they want
to stroke their own cocks they should
go home and do it in front of the mirror;
there is no need to share with the rest
of us.

Ayn Rand never realized that the granite
and the trees have their own agenda;
it is only her ego which leads her to
beleive that murder, destruction, and
greed are growth and progress.
The Artist/Sculpter bull in a china shop.

So....Jung can kiss my ass and put that
snake oil back in his jar. It never did
anybody any good. Lumping me in with her,
Socrates and Tom Foley. All of Jung's
theories are a mighty mirror, in which
there is only room for his reflection.
There is no room for the beauty
of failure (listen to Parker) or the
beauty of the mundane (read Hammarskjold),
not room for the dual nature of seeds and
flowers, no room for the wind.

I will not return to that house of mirrors.
Better to walk, in love, under a winter's moon.


  • At 8:13 PM, Anonymous Manny,Moe, & Jack & the Mighty Quinn said…

    you make me feel so Jung, but that could be my synchronistic collective unconscious talking. At least you don't make me feel Randy--you're not my archetype.


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