what would Freud say?

The stone heads of horses follow me
wherever I go.
They were born of the dust that rises in empty ships
halfway out into the ocean,
halfway out into a sea that has no home for them.
I've regarded their strong human bodies,
full of restless bones that suck in the skin,
as if trying to secede from the body.

I walked away from something indistinct you said
when we boarded this vessel
and found myself pulled
into its labyrinthine veins
like the flow of something deadly
to the body's system.

And the faces of the people,
they become heavy and gray.
All the faces of the naked people,
with their fashioned heads
lead me into a spacious dream.
No rooms here, no place to thrive,
no sheltered island outside.

What matters is here.

They pull me forward into a dream
that becomes more absurd the farther I go.
The aging smoke investigates my body;
it is suspended in this gray cement hollow.
And the windows, six aching palms
carved into the tops of these infinite walls
barred back, left to pray, fingers pointed to the sky,
not to some indiscernable sea below.

And the faces of these sullen people,
these lace-mouthed damsels with holes in their eyes;
these broken horses seem to dance--

the scenery always evolves to the possessed.