Tag Archives: pain

Thoughtless Blink

I blink,
Lethargic shutters make a gradual slope
From light to thought,
Or to that state where thought once lived,
That place to which thought will soon return –
Return to cloud the present
With mask of knowledge
And of mystery –
Illusion and form.

There is no thought now,
Only pain,
Sharp at the core,
Fading to a dull ache at the edges,
Shaded with dry fatigue.
Or,
Perhaps the fatigue
Is colored by dim pain –
I can no longer discern,
Not in this place.

From here I can see myself,
Watch a slow animal drag its way through the world,
Floating and tasting and touching,
But never sharing,
No, not sharing.
This form occupies a space,
Both are illusory,
And this pain-clouded thoughtlessness clears the vision.

I can relax.
Consciously absent.

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Mr. Dudley’s Not Home

Mr. Dudley’s not home,

say good-bye to his empty smile,

always alone,

always reaching

for someone or something

to hold.

Knowledge of being a burden

was his only security

other than the maddening depression.

Drink it all away,

it does ease the pain,

at least for a while,

at least at night when it’s dark,

something to occupy your mind,

again the pain dissipates.

Soon it’s time to go,

the knowledge is somewhat of a comfort,

delusions of peace,

if you had only listened.

Now you have found that which you sought.

 

For Uncle Donald,

October 16, 1995


Where

Where are you,
My friends?
I look for you,
Search for you in vanity of thought,
For verily,
We all know
That I sit alone,
Smiling among imaginary figments,
Metaphorically ironic.


1er Soir Apres La Rentree

So it looks like all I’ve got now is what’s in this pocket.

Memories don’t fit,

so I slip them to the wind.

Run away again,

do you think this is something I need?

Do you think I like to be bitten?

I see these walls surrounding your faces,

strange faces,

stories of lifetimes I no longer care to know.

I have been lost,

and you all have lost me too,

I see.

I look inside,

then in this little pocket to see what I’ve got –

a wad of cash and a few pieces of paper,

some soviet smokes and the keys to my cell.

This is not my world.

as I had once hoped,

but now I see this is a foreign place to me,

I am alien.

I look in this pocket,

what I’ve been given to finish

whatever it is I must do here.

I look and see my work,

my words,

words of welcome,

expressions of friendship,

but none of you knows what I keep in my pocket,

and you never will.

I am a liar,

and a mocker,

and I suffer from emptiness.

Well,

what did you expect?

Why did you call me friend?

Have we given each other something,

exchanged something?

Do you know me?

Is you life different without me?

That is why I look to this pocket –

to see what’s left

and to know what is mine.

But,

do not call me friend,

for such we are not.

I am an island here,

in this world,

in your world.

I am alien,

nakedly clutching the meager contents of my pocket.

A wad of cash,

some paper,

and some soviet smokes.

That is all I have to fight the emptiness?

.

But what do you know of emptiness?

Or for that matter,

of completeness?

Who are you to judge what you cannot fully see?

Can you speak of my love,

of what I have tasted and helped to shape?

Who are you to believe I am as simple as what the surface belies?

Fly, Blindness!

I have no room in my heart

for your sadness,

and your biting words are nothing –

only words.

Yes,

it’s sad with only this pocket,

and this handful of life.

But I have loved like none can imagine.

I have loved purely and deeply and solemnly.

Fly away blindness!

And send your biting words to the wind.

They will not fit in this pocket.

.

10.11.98


standing still

Maybe he stood there still, but not quite long enough.  Maybe he started, but his magic was hidden, even to himself.  Everything moved.  He looked to see that he had remained still, and he smiled inwardly and whispered, “I am proud.” But everything was moving and he began to fear.  For though he had remained still, he know that soon, he too should have to move.

“But not now,” he thought, “and tomorrow is just a day, as any other.”  But he was no longer sure.  And again, as in times nearly forgotten, he began to think and to fear.  Tomorrow loomed closer, and yesterday melted into folly.  Holes arose.  Holes in everything, and the sun started to dissolve.

“I am strong,” he chanted to ward off the darkness, “I am candle. I am light.” He shone dimly.  All things were moving shadows and he was no longer sure.  “I am not separate,” he cried as the holes began to attacj his light, began to attack his soul.  Through clouds of smoke, rolling thunder shattered holes into everything.

Across a field, the sight of trees and white crosses sheltered the elusive horizon.  He jumped, climbed the trees, and stepped on hills to see the other side.  He ate his meals dreaming, “an apple as the world, yet I can never see the other side.”  And dreams of unspeakable darkness came into his mind.  “I have been knighted, and I now carry my device on my banner — I am me, and that is all I need.”  The words echoed in his mind, yet ever the fear of that horizon, and who waited on the other side – always these fears tainted his brightly polished shield and tore at his fluttering banner.

A few of them remained – yet did not remain unscarred by the passage of those who had gone.

.

1.03.98


Emptiness

“How do you spell emptiness?”

I asked and she held out her hand,

withdrew her heart,

and breathed my name.

“How do you draw alone

and afraid?”

I asked

and tore the colors from the sky.

I danced that night the dance of the trees,

the slow,

drawing of magic from the Earth

as I cried for the changes in my heart.

“No one dances together,”

she whispered,

again breathing my name,

again tasting my name in the wind.

“no one dances together,

and together is not…

separate,”

she sighed,

“separate.”

“Look at me!”

I cried;

dull words that came back to me on that wind,

that most terrible wind.

“look at me and see me,

for my insanity is not of the surface.”

I glanced at my skin,

“cover me.”

The dance for that day,

again the dance of the trees

was meaningless in her eyes,

and she knew nothing,

only I knew.

The stars loved me that night,

and the moon touched the world

with her cold light –

there were no more colors to steal from the sky.

Afraid and alone melted in my knowledge

and she diminished to a shadow.

Here at the edge we are all the same,

and she diminished.

“you know nothing,

and have no wish to learn.

You know only of my emptiness,”

as the cure was lost with the colors

as the night awoke and scattered the day.

She knew nothing of nothing,

and still I believed her,

her honeyed voice of milk,

sliding the blade into my world –

I would not be that again.

The past is a story, a legend.

Remember tomorrow,

for thoughts of yesterday make you die.

“Do not wilt,”

I told her,

for already I had dreamt of fire

and of paradise falling.

“Do not think of the legend,

of what was or who I hoped to be,”

I grew enraged with futility

as her mind closed on false thought.

Drown this story,

forget these colors -the moon and the stars,

for fantasy shines form within,

and it is to the inside we must flee.

The inside is safe,

warm-fuzzy safe.

I go to the inside when I think of your name.

I go to watch the tragedy melt.

I go for the rivers.

Indeed,

I fell into the river that night

as she sang the similarities

between my name

and emptiness.

I pulled her down into the river to stop the song

and to find those colors.

I danced in the water,

again the dance of the trees,

and forgot of empty

and of words –

I forgot the difference.

I am there now,

sinking in the river,

forgetting yesterday and her stories.

I sink into peace.

.

10.25.98


Rent Mist

It is with such sadness,

such rending,

that I look into those eyes to see

reflected pain tinting all that is observed,

coloring this world

through mists

of misperception.

.

10.8.13


Man’s Empathy

with crushing defeat,

I leave the shell of my words,

blowing in argumentative winds,

murmurs of intentional misunderstanding

and aimed ill will.

into the doom of man

I place my concerns,

watch as the hope dwindles,

as compassion

and empathy

are ground under the pestle of greed –

meal for a final loaf.

why have I brought my seed

into this fire?

with sickness of heart,

I condemn them to themselves,

brush aside that blossoming love

for love,

and return to guarded cynicism,

protected.

.

10/8/13


Cruelty

Alas,

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.

 

Alas,

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.

.

10/3/13


Quick Bleed

Wounded, and though I do not bleed,

the pain courses my veins, now hot,

now cold and most cruelly stale.


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And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.

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