Monthly Archives: September 2013

no love

If I have not love,

I have nothing.

That is where I lie,

and why I shudder

to gaze in the mirror.

Can one learn to love?

Can it be forced from concept to practice to characteristic?

I do not love you,

I do not care.

I cannot grasp the social, collective spirit of humanity.

I drift,

a ship broken free of its moorings,

alone and unheeding within a storm

of uncaring.




I fear,

as I gaze upon the tide,

I fear to understand

that the desire of man,

is not Truth,

is not Perfection,

is not reconcilliation with diety.

What man wants most is justification,

acceptance and approval

of who they feel they are.

Mutable Truth

requires no change,

no investment in self,

or divestment thereof.

Man has no need for Truth.


Truth be damned.


An Obvious Descent

Awaking or Sleeping

Things fall to the ground and are spoiled.

If I stumble and fall,

I shall arise wounded

and dirty.

so I stand,



Things spiral

as music,

and I no longer look,

for I do not remember what to see.


Things fall and carry me with them

to that place where nothing works.

Where do they keep my dreams,

and how much to steal them back?

It’s wasted and worthless,

the battle to hold things aloft,

to keep them all where I want them,

yet how could I let my self stop caring?


I look down finally,

to see a plane above me,

broad even to the horizons.

I kept walking until I was below,

below down.

I stopped watching,

and now I see trees have bloomed

without whispering to me

of spring.

MY tree still sleeps and I must feel responsible.

I cannot feel the sway of the breeze

and I can no longer taste the stories of the rain.

Where did this water come from,

and why is it snowing?


I walk past my footsteps.

I want to know how I got down

and so how to find my way

back out.

But it has all been filtered

to that place

where nothing works.


yesterday is no longer a story,

but a riddle.

Sounds echo back,

“what did you do last night?”


This is it I say,


What does ‘it’ mean?

Questions to open,

caches blown to nothing.

“everything goes to nothing,

and we all race towards nothing,


But can they see down here,

with their giant eyes?”

Have I exchanged my ears

for these idiot ears?

Oh what I once had!

Oh, what I no longer remember!


Down here it is too bright.

These fallen things that trap me

trap the light as well.

The light lives here

(or is dying here,

growing stronger here,

who can tell?)

So I am blinded.

This place

(again where nothing works)

has no music,

and it is only this dull fucking light!

I have again strangled my muse,

evidence on this page,

for a slice of false peace.

I have much to say,

yet here I do not listen to myself.

False peace.

Promise now

(as I was a fallen fruit,

it is strange to taste the dying light)

I will.

But to redress is to work,

and this place invites sloth.


Now I see my dreams,

and where they have gone.

Now I see where my footsteps began.

You are there,

my pets,

and we will be together,

dancing while we damn the world

for her beauty and injustice.

How long did I practice?

How many deaths did I invite to discover that magic?

How could I have lost that embrace,

to fall so very low?

The magic can change this place,

make everything work.


I huddle here, searching,

probing these weaknesses.

I clutch those fallen things,

have they been discarded?

I clutch them to build.

I need that shell once more,

that magic-distance.

I can invite you in,

but I must construct it first

(I will disregard kindly,

that ‘you’ misplaced,

for this is only for me).

I must live it first.

Things have changed,


But I shall balance those evils

against this light-fallen-make-all-things-work magic.


Dance with me,

I say,

to me.

Dance with me and we will make the music return.

Dance down here,

between these fallen things,

indeed through them,

within them.

I know this place well,

how this nothing brings me my strength.

I use it.

I knead it.


I need it.

Read it.

Study it.

Learn you fucking dull bastard!

(again, as if in reference for myself later,

you is you).


Do I sense a repeat?

Or can I sincerely say, “only practice”?

Repeat – of necessity,

practice – again and again.

Tune it here,

where nothing works

and move those fallen things

to music.

With eyes closed, look at dreams,

They will not come while you are dieing,

so live to invite the return.

They are strength here,

the only life

in this dieing light

(remember the fallen things)

The hope that calls to the light,

the music.

Remember the little yellow piece of paper

and the magic you destroyed with it?

Bring back the dreams

and force them to stay.

Yes, I feel already the strength they impart,

the knowledge they have gained

during their slumber.

That dream is not of you,

but rather

working through you.

It is magic you dream from the world

(you here is I),

and which is controlled by spirit.


I return.

Again down here.

The loved me before,

those dreams,

but left them,

I let them go.

No I curse my false peace,

and call for that magic insanity!

Oh, but remember,

I must repeat-and-control

and fly-and-escape.

Did I think that land gone,

gladly celebrate its vanquish?

Do I remember higher purity?

Can I go back,

back from down here?


Down here is confusion.

I see I am lost.

There is no landscape,

for I have destroyed it.

There are only things fallen,

I see how they are in ruin.

Ruin of dreams

and of pain

and pf liberating insanity.

Gone are my mountains

and stars,

chilly streams and depthless lakes.

But I look to the sky

(for now a sky surely exists),

and I almost imagine the dark silhouette

of those ancient,

forgotten hills.

I nearly glimpse the faintest twinkle of stars,

yet all is as a dream of fever,

gone and scarred over.


Down here my strength is illusion.

I cannot see my foes,

for I am ignorant,

and thus they of me.

I push it all away,

I writhe myself inside.

I must hurt now,

and I cannot gladly invite.

I will rediscover the magic,

and I will keep it this time.


Down here it is gloomy,

my twisted smile barely reflects the light

that is afraid to look in my eyes.

I can now find my dreams,

I can now feel them bite.

I can again and find that madness.



I am coming back now.




I hang on the razor,

delicately balanced between false pride

and earth shattering reality.

How did I get here?

Who is this man

they claim to see?

The strain is tremendous,


I feel the unraveling of a facade

as the threat of cascade looms.

I see nowhere to turn,

no paths toward advice

towards justification.

I am lost.



Poetic Trifles

I care not for gilded tales

of ruby lips,

nor for flowery meanderings

down paths of nature,

cascading words like lilting streams,

nor even for that cloaking darkness

that weakly veils less than forgotten pains,


These are mere poetic trifles,

exercises in word-craft skill,

or so boring,

so mind-numbingly trivial,

another aimless haiku

with no thought,

and no soul.



I hunger for truths,

for Truth itself.

My heart burns to witness universality conquered

and confined to the page,

to read of myself,

of all man in the context of all that is.

Speak to me of perception within the great vastness

of Being.

Speak to me guiding words

of the depths of Why

arrayed in robes of bejeweled free verse,

or proclaimed brashly through screeching,

unwieldy rhymes,


These poetic trifles –

they bore my senses.



a rose

I arose once the morning

the burning of Apollo’s shield melt away

arose once a rose,

the eclipse of Jupiter

from the smoke of the Departed,

the vial of ephemeral snow,

entrapped in memory, vision, and fantasy,

encased in glass, the recess of mind,

never to wilt, never to die,

nor to live, nor to grow, nor to joy in life,

simply isolated,

a rose arose from smoke to settle

to persevere,

the rose in my mind.




Look into my eyes so that I may tell myself what to think.

I can’t remember what the feeling is and how much it knows.

But you recall,

you never left,

and that is my haunting, my pain and price for mistake.

The well inside, the reservoir of emotion

has quickened to a boil

everything erupts.

From the ashes, the terrible agonizing remainder

rises the fiery phoenix god of anger,

my revenge on myself for rejection by my self.

I no longer ask for you to understand,

and I yearn for the false glory,

attentions from the careless,

signs upon my body read messages for the damned,

untold unsung unknown and together all together here forever.

Run out once more,

please leave my company

to invite the sweet vampire pain to embrace my mind

to fill your seat.

Depart from my eyes, strike down my pride, just shatter the illusion

the gift gone go lucky feeling happy play.

We all know, we can all see the little child crying,

crying for attention,

falling for attention,

dieing to be with you.

Desperation is the game,

loneliness the sin,

loneliness the reward.

Desperation is my sin, my bounty, my child.



Dialogue, the Monologue

Wont’ you dance?

No, not at the moment.  Call again later.

Call again tomorrow, or perhaps

I’ll call you.

Very well, all smiles and thank-yous.

under my breath, aside to the inside

Presently I am disgusted,


I care less and you smile,

‘my friend.’

Something?  You said something?

Nonsense. A chasing of the wind, but nonsense simplified.

You can look at me,

you can think of me,

but I will always be mine

from this moment and all others.

Are you trying to seduce me?

Are you breaking my mind and heart?

Perhaps your mind,

I break those when permitted,

stir it up, stir it.

But that stone of a granite stone heart is as ice.

Again, your pardon?


What of today, what of the stupid, what of the now?

The now?

The who and the now?

I am Aside, I am the unconquerer, the vague.

Today and her name are nothing,

and everything without.

Riddle me, riddle along.  Imbecile!  Fool!  All that is worthless!

Who are you? Why? Ask it again, Why?

Always the you, always this month!

June of the heartbroken,

this month loves the nest,

heat my all in all wonderful time.

You hurt me.  You annoy.  You are my friend.

in my self, in the head

Friend is a word of cowards

and loveless lovers.

friend is half of all that I have.

Give, give, give. Stop. Withdraw.  Go away the loser to return once a victor.

Silence.  You know nothing.

Silence. Or deafening voicing, all one and the same.

You hear your own thoughts, twisted from my voice.

You hear nothing, why break perfect silence?

Triteness, trilly-la-turu-la-trill.  Work and play, play, play, play, play.

I’ll know on the morrow, I’ll know you elsewhere, the grass brights greener.

Nowhere later ever or now.  We are here and together.

Am I not the Vague?  The backside and memory?

The landmark of all, sign towards sign?

You know not of naught of all that I dream,

you care less, and you see no one here.

Stand here alone as you pull away my shadow,

stand here alone as you now are alone.

Alone?  Silly Trifle!  Petty Child, I stand here with you – a friend.

Utter me not as possession of friend.

for once an another –

I am not he.



The Gifts

She hangs her head,
peacefully resigned to her fate,
to finally feed with her body
the last of nature’s hungry children,
the microbes and bacteria and fungi
that restore the soil
and trap life-granting nutrients
for her children,
strewn across the sun-lit fields
by furtive birds
and squirrels.
She hangs her head,
adorned with God’s signature
written in the artful sequence
of one-one-two-three-five,
a spiral dance of living children,
girded for a better life than she,
evolved against disease
and drought
and famine,
ingrained with the code,
modified instructions to paint their faces
as they gaze lovingly at the sun,
even as she spent her days,
basking in the glory of that light.
And now she bows,
silent and proud
in her gifts to her young,
and to the bird and squirrel,
as she finally beds to the Earth,
to return as her final gift,
that initial gift granted her,



in response to Where by Kalina @

Forever Long Enough

Forever long enough

like we should be together high enough.

Tomorrow is a dream,

the dream of children and fools,

sky gone loves

left to never ever again.


You are here,

the today party game.

Love and today,

that is all I know

or ever need to have.



Baking Blowup

Our Baking Will Blow Your Mind

The Dinner

A Space for Fellowship

Mick On Everything

Just a regular guy who is interested in everything

Wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.


Turning Tears and Laughter into Words

A Word From The Raven's Beak

Or whatever I came up with whilst eating cereal this morning

Syl65's Blog

Poetry, music, creative writing and a desire to inspire....Isaiah 45:2-7 I will go before you and will level the mountains[a]; I will break down gates of bronze and cut through bars of iron. 3 I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord

Words are mighty

poems, and poems again

Itty Bitty Journeys

Epic Tales of Tiny Adventures


literary fictions, flashes, fiascos


The heart has to be able to act against itself. (m.m.)

A Holistic Journey

Finding my way back out of motherhood -- while mothering

Experimental Fiction

"Come with me, and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination" Willy Wonka, 1971

Just breathe.

Life is beautiful. And there is so much to be grateful for.


A work in progress

Nathan Blixt

Art, Text, Code, Design