Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Brief as a Blog Should Be

The End of the World

This is the end of the world, my love,
This is the belly of night,
A savage stillness of universe
To smother our short loan of light.

Do not take off your clothes, my love,
Do not tempt my desire;
The vanquished earth is tired of us,
She is tired of us, she is tired

And the vanishing stars are disinterested
In any affectionate play;
They look to the weighing of everything--
I tremble to see what we weigh.

--CE (written 1978)

I searched Google for "bipolar + poetry." After reviewing 230 web entries I realized that sites by bipolar poets are cliche'. Mine wasn't among them. But in searching for blogs, mine is currently at the top of the list only because a recent post included the two key words (July 8).

Forgive this blog, I beg you. The little discipline of writing in it each day gives me a brief respite from the devils in my head.

In my depression I am disgusted with and embarrassed by this blog. Why dance around in my psychic underwear? Feel free to throw tomatoes. If they become lodged in my shell like Kafka's cockroach, I'll ignore the stench of their decay. My soul smells worse.



  1. I did not understand Kafka until I became ill enough that I could not leave my bed. What a surreal and demeaning position. I cannot understand how anyone can stay in that position and not go stark raving mad.

  2. Don't be embarrassed, like I posted before, you're not alone. I've been dealing with memories of my parents lately - without going into detail, they were abusive - enough said.

    So, the memories are coming out in my poetry. To others, they are hidden fragments, cosmic dancing of metaphor, but to me, they are shouting at the roof-top.

    Dave Barber


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