The Judge-Penitent

Pressed

I’m writing because I have nowhere else to go,

My chest moves but the air won’t get out of me

And I’m heavy, getting heavier, steadily sinking into feeling,

Sinking like a stone,

The presence of the present is pressing, overwhelming,

There’s no place like home,

No place to go.

I had a dream I was a child again, school was closing,

All the parents trickled by, smiling, little hands clasped tightly,

One by one they go, until –

 

I wake up and I’m alone

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The Judge-Penitent

Brewed in the Brewhouse

Copper glory,

Insufficient and adrift,

All my dreams are boring,

And marked by thrift.

 

This is the signal of the song:

Crippled but unconvincing

In the tooth cruel and long,

But ultimately remitting.

 

Ob-Cured, with dribbled leering

and ribbed, discoloured dreaming

so it begins, the undisclosed descent

of rudimentary spring cleaning.

 

The scum, like on teeth a cancer grows,

Alt-drowning disfiguring, de-clothed,

 

A – gasp, and, ungrasped the living go,

but not undone, nor comforted

by unsolicited cream clothes.

 

Oh come on.

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The Judge-Penitent

Manic Intoxication

Concurrent with the sound of an Ass-Clown,

this is the drum beat of my creme-de-le-crown,

It’s my au pair with dramatic lounge wear

Written over the unspeakable chowDARE,

of a pea-king premier powDARE

Escape me

An Eschatological prayer beat

Of reanimated reconstructed bear meat.

Open up the reconfigure, my what du make it,

Whats the De Jure,

Whats it all for?

No idea but keep singing,

Ke/ep the risk of the hoping,

Homing in on a pure disturple,

disturbing dystopian purple.

Thats the homing bee,

the open cumin creeper of Q T

How long I’ve waited for thee.

And only,

not really, but lonely,

I’m the only,

What an upset, hurdle, bring on the girdle, long round the open court,

I am s season beyond reason and what works,

Now no longer able to see, bringing the ocean

The over, the open decision still waiting to be, waiting for it all

to wash onto, what has and had not been. it is is , Il y a na pas, no idea what i’m trending toward being,

have i said enough,

have i continued to disagree, both with myself, the past, all and the once and future king,

Bring it back to the dirt, you are forgiven, this is the end of my speaking killing spree,

Amen,

Addendum be me.

 

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The Judge-Penitent

The Night Ceaselessly Bends

Again, I am at that Other-than-the-end,

That mind-pressed point where the night ceaselessly bends

Away, and with an edged eye and many-turnings I keep

My watch, not a sentinel but a deserter from the enclosure of sleep.

Rest, cannot be possessed by man, cannot be won; every discomfort

And disruption is a prize clutched back from the walls of oblivion,

For like the mad, searching through the ignorant for the wise have eyes only for themselves, forever young,

So too I know not why I press a thousand moments against one;

Blowing the rain back into clouds, alone but wanting to speak aloud, pulling the roots back to a seed, as passions run aground as deeds;

so finally, dreams are to stone undone,

And dissolving, I am gone.

 

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The Judge-Penitent

He Abandons Writing for more Wine

Acid-Heads talk about Ego-Death,

But I’m more comfortable with oblivion.

So let the shade descend on my narrow bed,

And the lonely place I’m living in.

Names are for nobodies who crave recognition,

Opinions are for statues that are fond of their position,

Sophistication is for poems that are not written whilst one is drunk,

And Rhyming is the predilection of those who still give a fuck.

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The Judge-Penitent

There is a Yearning

Please, let there be a moment,

When the heavens spread out their open arms

over a valley of sculpted white divine,

shadowed by an amber sky;

Let there be a time,

When my joy is innervated through my body,

and it sings in harmony with the world,

accompanied by a chorus of light;

Let the wings of my love be unfurled,

in front of hearts and eyes flung open,

outside of every burden;

Only, let this happen,

For there is a yearning,

A something it is to be alive,

And though, I know, this cannot last forever,

Please, let it last

only a little longer.

Let me have this time.

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The Judge-Penitent

Writing Is Still a Traumatic Love/Death Expression

I’ve got old sins: the kind you’re born with,
Pores without the skin, where black feelings go in,
And ugliness remains, sticking it all together.
I’m a real romantic it seems, still in love with
Girls I don’t know,
And don’t speak to,
Shrugging off ones I’ve slept with,
And couldn’t care less for,
What a hero!
At the end of my life,
Which is a holiday I’ve been planning
For a good decade, or maybe two,
I’d love to tell you that I’ve been joking,
Which is only partly true,
Partly I’ve been laughing at the idea of being alive,
And at not being a tar-pit of gloom, much as it suits me.
Just like the box in my mind marked “abyss”,
My love is a Platonic Ideal I’ve contemplated,
Into a this,
A poetic disease,
A sentimental smell of rancour,
The kind of good health that only lepers long for.
My love is an open sewer,
Pouring out over the streets,
Of my friends and the people that tolerate me,
I’m not quite sure that they’re distinct.
Yes, now you ask, I am tired of living in sin;
But it persists, what else could I say?
I would rather wash off the stink of confession,
But, to me, writing is still a traumatic Love/Death expression

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The Judge-Penitent

A Collection of Incomplete Longings

All my thoughts are yesterday’s,
No, let not tomorrow come,
For if you should go while I remain,
I could not face the rising sun.

I drift along autumnal seas,
Slow, never sifting to the bottom,
I am as lonely as all the trees,
That know their leaves have left them.

I keep my time by a shattered watch,
Stubborn, I live inside the jagged part,
I keep in shape with a glass of scotch,
And nightly exercise my bitter heart

One day, when my mortal shadow dies,
I’ll choose to disappear completely.
And the first moment I looked in her eyes,
Is the place that you will find me.

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The Judge-Penitent

The Separation of Sleep

I dream in pursuit of the separation of sleep,
The succession of moments that yet lie indistinct,
For this is the mind’s opening, to ti esti to think,
The pathway that cradles the brink.

I move in the shape of a shadow at rest,
The standing of a stature that is too often professed,
For this is the moral calling, thou doest at thy behest,
And yet the messenger is deaf.

I speak in the staccato of a stammering tongue,
The stops in between starts, the trammels of the young,
For this is the hearts indecision, the profanity of soul,
The freedom beyond all control.

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The Judge-Penitent

“I’m On Fire”

I lie awake at night, alone, and I think about you. I’m burning on the inside over you, and it won’t end. I think about all the things I want to say to you, but there’s no point to it. There’s just no damn end to it.
And I turn and I turn, but I can’t get away from you. I lie in cool sheets, just searing a big damn hole over you, like I’m having a bad dream and I can’t get out and I can’t sleep. And it wouldn’t matter if you were a hundred miles away or pressed against me, because it’s never been about you, your just beautiful and precious enough to miss you like you should of been mine. But I don’t want you to be here with me. I’m as alone as the first day I met you, and I made sure to keep it that way, because I’m a black hole, deep down, and I don’t want to suck you in. So I keep trying to turn away from you, waiting for you to leave, but I still know its just me, pulling you in. And it’s hot as hell, being so empty inside, just thinking, and thinking, and thinking; always falling in……

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The Judge-Penitent

He Sheds The Old Skin

He descends, slowly, stooping, dull iron clattering upon his pointed body. His promises hang about him, all the trinkets he is commanded to keep by earnest, masochistic love. His body is a work of worn grooves of love.
He is a stick draped in chimes, he is a carrier of another’s song. He knows nothing but the feeling of his precious burden. He has only ever been a construct, in honour of his maiden. The Sun diminishes quietly, unseen, the night rises from oblivion. He lays when he is lowest, he is tethered to this earth, exhaustion brings the dreamless sleep.
A single breathe accompanies the silence,
but for the first time, a cry springs forth from its cadence,
for the first time, his inner world has awoken,
for the first time, his eyes have opened,
only now that the light escapes him can he learn to see.
Only a moment begins this becoming, yet he is already speaking in the unused instrument of his body:
“What strength pushes out from me, that is not a bearing, or a bending down, or a chain pulling upon me! It is a firmer kind of immortality than all my crafted pledges, this will to be all things that must nevertheless be a kind of nothing, tear this artisan’s form from me!”
His oaths have constrained him without release, but now they fall like scales from the new skin, and shatter on the ground. He was constrained to kneel, but now he must reach his full height. Every step is an ascension from the earth, he rises to meet the new dawn, his skin warms to the Sun. His body is a play of an infinity of stances, shapes and presences. He has shed the last of his sin, his body welcomes the new becoming from within. He is ready for the world to impress itself upon him, to let its love wash over him. In honour of his living maiden.

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The Judge-Penitent

I Could Not Live Forgotten

I could not live forgotten;
My footprints in the dawning Autumn,
Covered over after the leaves have fallen:
I could not live forgotten;
The marks and traces I inscribed,
Scratched out by self-defeating pride,
The figures that we pressed in sand,
That the sea came for, and overran:
I could not live forgotten;
Those rejoicing, rounding cheers of praise,
Receded now in hearts unfazed,
The friends that wore you like a style,
And then moved on after a while:
I could not live forgotten;
The smiles erased and newly traced,
For the gaze of another charming face,
And the promises now left unsaid,
For girls with other men instead:
I could not live forgotten.
And the loved ones you would not discard,
That time took anyway, and broke your heart,
The silence that you felt from God,
That perhaps even he had now forgot:
I could not live, forgotten.

But worst of all, to be standing there,
On the edge of cliffs that time laid bare,
A ghost of memory downtrodden,
“I could not live, forgotten”

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The Judge-Penitent

Being Alive Is Being Outside

I realize now that I have always wanted to be just outside of you, just beyond where you can see. That is the embodiment of where I have always been, not really being loved, not really being seen. Pulling upon the skin of phantasy,pushing into reality, but never quite stepping in. When you do look over and call my name, it is only an echo that I hear from the deepest, darkest cave of my memory, and it does not return in your voice, and neither is it mine. It’s a tone of desperate and ugly shame, a black stain that wants to be clean but is filthiness itself, how white and pure you seem compared to this, do you see? I want to go in and carve up the beast that feels even older than myself, but all the good I’ve ever done has been an inversion of it’s claim, an ecstatic No, a sinful cry of redemption, if I must be, let me not be. Sometimes I’ve known all the good things I could bring you, all that joy in between the gaps I see between peoples desires and deceit. But there’s a valley of darkness here inside of my own lies and needs, let alone between your heart and my dreams, and being clear and open and without obscurity is like being dead in my eyes, some life I’m too afraid to perceive. I can see this is an illness, but I’ve never seen someone transform like I would for you, it frightens me. But then I’ve always been trying to leave this body, haven’t I, to get out of being me. Being alive is being on the outside of who you want to be. So please don’t leave me. And don’t love me either. The only thing with meaning is the distance, in between.

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The Judge-Penitent

Maelstrom

When you come to the shore of that vast expanse, to that unseen depth beyond the surface waters in which we perceive the inner human being, stop and try to penetrate within. See whether the tides lightly skim and fold upon one another, that you might know an easy cheerfulness bubbles underneath. Or feel a driving current directed ever certain upon your feet, steady and without difficulty, knowing that a firm resolve is flowing beneath. Or simply study an effervescence of independent thoughts and needs, quickly disappearing in a foamy sea. But beware the still and quiet waters, for from the heart there flows no direction, the unmoved are a breeding ground for disease.
But if you look into me, and see a maelstrom of turmoil disturbing every possible horizon, such that nothing can float above even momentarily, do not be afraid or pity me. For though it may seem that in my center there is only a nothingness in which all hope disappears, I am really but two opposite forces of love and hatred that will not concede. Do not try to slow me, or put yourself in the blast of one or another, for you will only be treated unjustly. Rather, let it churn faster, that nothing may sink into the darkness of conceit.
Only take what you require from what returns, for in this my waters are clear, and my waters are clean.

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