Tag Archives: madness


An old creak as the doors of the morning rattle from the sweet cover of unconscious dream.

The painful light of being bears down on me,

urging and pressing and warring.

In waking there is no repose,

Duty latches onto my first thought –

a schizophrenic voice,

maleficent and sharp.

There is no soft glow of morning here,

no quiet solitude before the dawn to prepare.

Here no sailors press the shoes of luck before the day begins,

for the night has been a brief pause only,

and yesterday’s burdens beat the dust of responsibility from their coattails

and into my sputtering,

coughing lungs.

Now the cold light drips down on me,

artificial and frigid,

it stings my eyes even as it reminds me that nature lies afar

just outside my reach,

just outside my sight.

I rot in this cage of the mind,

watching as each precious moment of being is traded for a morsel

and mortgaged for another sack of chores,

always waiting

always bearing down and pressing crushingdehumanizingdamningkilling.

There is no escape.

I have no metaphor,

no poetic analogy.

I am trapped.

This is Hell.



There in the swirling torrent,

at the eye of the rage and chaos,

in the core there is a stillness,

an unremembrance of the gnats and knives

carried in the wind.

Round and round and round,

flashing lights illuminate white-capped crests

as the very surface bends to that calm,

to that void wherein there is no whirl,

no time,

no thing.

Implosion of sound as forward becomes down becomes around again,

the distance from peace ages and lengthens

as the sea is wrapped and twisted further around the eye.

Above, the clouds lurch,

drunken spirals they vomit the cold, biting rain,

spew hail,

belch thunder.

There is no sun beyond the cloud,

no night sky reigned with star,

there is nothing but the maelstrom,

crashing and gnawing at that silent core,

drawing everything down to the silent end.


I have lost all perception of time,

boundless I meander.

Poorly-weighted thoughts compete

for attention;

“Am I hungry?”

“Is it raining?”

“Does ‘Now’ include a few moments ago?”


I cannot see past the tip of my mind

into what is coming.

Nor am I aware

of what has already been.

I am aware of so very little –

unconscious in a fog of confusion.


I do not think I am hungry.



foul mood fey and twisted with wroth.

I long for your consumption,

to be the burning, grinding, flaming end

to what little hope you have held,

what false projections

of justice and hope with which you color your visions.



breath of cruelty takes me,

smiling blackness over my shoulders peers,

whispering voices churning thought,

perversions disfigured,

come to me so that I may eat you up.


I long to twist.



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.



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.



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.


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