Category Archives: DEMONS

Tihe old snake.charmer, once he played Soft music for the serpe ‘s ear, But now his cunning hand is stayed.

 The Kiama Independent, and Shoalhaven Advertiser

Dr Hake. 1876.

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A PIPE OF TOBACCO

Little tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper pressed,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from they balmy kisses.
Happy thrice and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.

Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket’s gay
(Little cricket, full of play),
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed;
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again
Happiest he of happy men.

-Isaac Hawkins Browne (1736)

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Nishu Mathur, India
Poem
The Snake Charmer

The old wizened wrinkled snake charmer, with a red turban on his head,
A khaki  bag across his shoulders, a dhoti wrapped around his legs.

He traces his ancestors path, makes his way through dusty lanes,
Calling out through his flute, hoping to cast his spell again.

A coiled cobra wrapped in a basket… his livelihood he carries around,
No doubts, no fear, with his snake the snake charmer walks the town.

Curious chatter, a fascinated child yearns to see the snake rise,
Dancing to the charmer’s tune, a cobra or a viper mesmerized.

With the basket a distance away, the charmer sits crossed leg, his tune to play,
The snake slowly uncoils serpentine, moving to the flute,  it starts to sway.

A crowd gathers and like the snake, it stands entranced with widened eyes,
The cobra dancing to the flute …with it’s movement, hypnotized.

The snake raises it’s head and lunges forward with a menacing hiss,
The snake charmer unperturbed plays his flute, and gives death a miss.

Coins, notes, come the charmer’s way…sighs, cheer, clear and loud,
A prayer in humble gratitude, the snake charmed, so the crowd.

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In our home, something like being a poet would be thought of as putting on airs

KAY RYAN

http://kellyrfineman.livejournal.com/318827.html

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They are not devious, and they fear lies as they fear fire. They don’t tell lies even in the most trivial matters. To lie to someone is to insult them, and the liar is diminished in the eyes of the person he lies to. Civilized people don’t put on airs; they behave in the street as they would at home, they don’t show off to impress their juniors.

From a letter to Nikolay Chekhov, March 1886
― Anton Chekhov, A Life in Letters

Warriors should suffer their pain silently.” Erin Hunter, Into the Wild

 

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Warrior’s Journey

Father dies
mother leaves
sisters taken away.
Helpless, defenceless.
No hand to cling to,
Welfare Property
Ward number 77318
another number, another mouth,
another body, another untouched soul,
another heart to be healed,
another shadow in the dark of night.
She is two years old.
From one dwelling to another she is sent.
Disconnected, her child’s heart broken, the need for love
Unquenched.
A vacuum for her confidence and sense of self;
anxiety and anger her constant companions
she struggles to belong, she doesn’t belong.
Hands shake, body trembles,
cries unheard, muffled under bed covers.
She is ten years old.

She thinks of death to escape the anguish.
She believes she has no right to take up space,
to breathe air.
She believes there will be rejoicing at her passing,
a problem solved.
She releases the genie in the bottle,
life goes on about her,
she closes her eyes and waits.
She is marked. She is spared.
Like the first born of the Israelites, the Angel of Death passes her by.
She is twelve years old.

Tormented by anger, a prisoner of rage.
Her cries for justice, she fights to be heard.
They say, ‘she’s a psychiatric case’
and needs to be medicated.
Silence her voice, dull her mind, and inhibit her strong emotions.
She must endure the rash, the itch, the weight gain, the hand tremors, and the sluggish thoughts.
Now they say ‘she’s boring with no powers of conversation’.
In school she sits, eyes heavy; she drops her head – just for a moment.
She sleeps her days away.
She is fourteen years old

She hears the call of the warrior soul.
She resists sedation; the murder of her spirit.
Pills hurtle across the fence, a cry goes out
‘I won’t do what you want any more!’
Strong male hands force her down, inject her into submission.
They say ‘it’s for her own good and for the good of others’.
She is ‘disturbed’, ‘mad’, emotionally retarded’.
She is fifteen years old.

She is released, pushed out into a world of strangers.
They don’t understand or care about her sorrow.
She must find work, forge relationships, and build a life. There is no help, there is no social net to catch her, and there is no family to
give her connection.
She must find her own way.
She is lost, jobs are transient, and relationships unravel.
Booze is her solace, drugs her respite, madness her rescuer.
The streets her home.
She is seventeen years old.

She is a mother;
frightened, solitary,
how can she care for the infant in her arms?
She needs help, she reaches out,
her children are removed.
She can’t be trusted, she can’t trust herself.
It’s for her own good ‘in the best interest of the children’.
She seeks the comfort of death,
but death rejects her plea.
The ‘Warrior Soul’ calls her to life.
She yearns to be a mother, she craves to do it right,
Her children are ‘restored’,
She is twenty-four years old.

A single mother, living in poverty.
She hears the call of her warrior soul
She needs to dream, she needs to believe,
She needs to hope.
However, she is mad.
Her mind has betrayed her,
what can she anticipate?
The pills, the booze, the violence.
How can she break the will to self-annihilate?
She is determined.
She must find a way.
She is twenty-seven years old.
She treads the road of trials,
She cries out ‘there is no God!’
Lost within her madness,
admitted to the Clinic.
‘What is wrong with me?’ she pleads.
She is thirty-three years old.

The warrior soul is stronger
than the darkness, that binds her.
She heeds its call.
Is there a God? She prays to believe.
She dares for more than mere survival,
she crawls out from within the sewage of her life.
She is thirty-six years old.

Her untaught soul greets the morning.
She discovers she is far more than all her experiences.
More than her illness.
She knows now, in each one of us
there is a gold of great worth.
There is a warrior soul of strength and courage.
Compelled to transform her suffering.
she studies, she learns, she grows,
finds enduring love, personal value.
She connects.
Passes on her hope,
helps others finds their way.
Sometimes death still whispers her name,
however, she grips the hand of the warrior within,
she has learnt to trust.
She has found power and strength within,
She is forty-five years old.

copyright Margaret Spivey 2003

Bad people drink bad beer. You almost never see an empty bottle of Rochefort tossed onto the side of the road. — Dave Cooks

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I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” 

Edgar  Allan Poe

Dope never helped anybody sing better or play music better or do anything better. All dope can do for you is kill you – and kill you the long, slow, hard way. Billie Holiday

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The question is frequently asked: Why does a man become a drug addict?
The answer is that he usually does not intend to become an addict. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to be a drug addict. It takes at least three months’ shooting twice a day to get any habit at all. And you don’t really know what junk sickness is until you have had several habits. It took me almost six months to get my first habit, and then the withdrawal symptoms were mild. I think it no exaggeration to say it takes about a year and several hundred injections to make an addict.
The questions, of course, could be asked: Why did you ever try narcotics? Why did you continue using it long enough to become an addict? You become a narcotics addict because you do not have strong motivations in the other direction. Junk wins by default. I tried it as a matter of curiosity. I drifted along taking shots when I could score. I ended up hooked. Most addicts I have talked to report a similar experience. They did not start using drugs for any reason they can remember. They just drifted along until they got hooked. If you have never been addicted, you can have no clear idea what it means to need junk with the addict’s special need. You don’t decide to be an addict. One morning you wake up sick and you’re an addict. (Junky, Prologue, p. xxxviii)”

William S. Burroughs, Junky

No matter how beautiful and well crafted a coffin might look, it will not make anyone wish for death.

(African

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“Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupted again.
“So he can sneak up on people,” said Ron. “Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking…”

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“O cricket from your cherry cry No one would ever guess How quickly you must die.”

–  Basho

http://www.gardendigest.com/insect.htm

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Price Cobb, American race-car driver, after winning a 1988 race
Some days you’re the bug. Some days you’re the windshield.

The Bow’ry, the Bow’ry! They say such things, And they do strange things On the Bow’ry! The Bow’ry! I’ll never go there anymore!

The Bowery’ is a song from the musical A Trip to Chinatown with music by Percy Gaunt and lyrics by Charles H. Hoyt. The musical toured the country for several years and then opened on Broadway in 1891

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bowery_%28song%29

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“Walk the Bowery under the El at night and all you feel is a sort of cold guilt. Touched for a dime, you try to drop the coin and not touch the hand, because the hand is dirty; you try to avoid the glance, because the glance accuses. This is not so much personal menace as universal — the cold menace of unresolved human suffering and poverty and the advanced stages of the disease alcoholism.”

― E.B. White, Here Is New York

“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

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we continue to spend fortunes on an stupefying array of distractions supposedly designed to make us happier than Liz Taylor at a wedding Cosmetics that contain everything from the placenta of unborn goats to a pound of pig fat mixed with volcanic ash and 19 secret ingredients from the rain forest diet products to remove mountains of blubber gained by stuffing ourselves because we are so damn miserable, and miserable because we are so horribly fat cosmetic surgery in every place from facial to other cheeks mind-numbing cruises to paradise luxury boats that never leave their luxury marinas hard drugs soft drugs alcohol anti-depressants uppers downers frenetic gambling to hit the big time jewellery that is too expensive to wear image marriages destined to last all of six months mink-lined designer toilet seats lottery tickets tobacco products we know will kill us and billions of tons of electronic and plastic and toxic junk that add nothing to our lives and create only clutter, pollution and landfill.

(Robert White)

http://www.inspirationalstories.com/quotes/t/about-blubber/

To the poor memories of drunks,’ she said. ‘To all the lovely nights forever lost.”

― S. Fitts

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“Elliot Rawley was a drinker, Cy’s mother had been right. And he was a poor drinker. One that let the demons of the bottle into his head when he tipped it back, demons that went about unloosing all the trouble they could find stashed in the catacombs of his mind. Every tragic thing that had ever happened, every self-doubt, every delusion, freed itself from bondage and revisited him when he drank.

― Sarah Hall, The Electric Michelangelo

Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.

― Emily Dickinson

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“Have faith in who you are. Believe that you will recover, and it will truly happen. And don’t judge yourself too harshly. Some things are meant to be, and you had to fall so that later you may rise and become what you are truly meant to be.”

― Joseph Delaney, Clash of the Demons