Dark Alice Comes to Call

Sometimes pain itself is a disease.

  

She gnaws

jaws and claws

like silver to a vampire

burning fire

ripping, tearing through my back

down my leg nerves ripped from deep inside

screaming, seeming like I'm dreaming

so damned unreal

skin, muscles bones

breaking, taking me to places

no man ever has been or wants to be

please god oh god yes god

I CALL ON GOD!

to make her stop! --

on fallen knees my pleas

"Jesus! God Mohammed Budda ANYONE!" scorch my lungs

and burn the very air

my hair must be on fire

the screams awake the house the block the universe

must know must see me writhing on the floor

my body twisted in bizzare tortured ways

sirens wail lights so bright

flashing in the night

white coats flapping

soothing voices

"there there" whispered in my ear

hands grasping hot flesh

tears pouring out in waves,

ghostly grey, soaked in sour sweat

needle in at last

firing up my arm

and

slow:

my wife's stricken face

sails away in clouds of fog

her eyes too large

morphine

drags me

down

at

last.

 

She's gone.

 

"Alice threw the looking glass,"

someone heard me mumble

 

 

Author's Note

When you've lived for eight years with pain so bad you almost never leave your bed, it becomes another person, dominating your life.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This is pretty intense, and also relatable. My similar experiences were quite brief in comparison to yours. I sure hope some doctors fixed you up. I find it interesting that you made the pain female. (Yeah, I get it!)

[FlatDaddy]

That was a lot of years ago, Sam. I am so much better now. And of course it was female; isn't that the source of most of our pain -- AND joy, of course. We can't forget the joy. The doctors helped, but there's only one person who can finally fix that kind of pain: one's self. I had to realize that, then do it. And the writing has helped a lot.

[bookworm]

Its so interesting to me what we do with our pain...we manipulate words into poetic phrases, somehow endearing "it" to us through this creative medium...makes it palatable, I suppose.... writing is such a life saver for this very reason...bc honestly FD, what to you do with THAT? The enormity of your painful reality is irrelevant to itself. The pain has no empathy, compassion. We can't bleed tenderness from its wiry fingers...so we fondle it, drape it in ornamental decor, to ease its burden. However, let me point out one thing that I'm intrigued by with this write....you haven't glorified your survival. You gave us a detailed account, but did it without the cushion of adopting a "hero" persona. And you didn't glamorize the morphine. We are made privy to the heinous torture of your pain, but in such a straight up way that I didn't feel unable to see your impressive creativity throughout the entire piece...I find this very unique and surprising (again, with the surprises....).

Throwing this into my vault of "favorites", fo sho.......

[☮Alpenglow]

Superb write. Entirely enthralled, I found myself seeing and grasping at your raw portrayal... Undeniably do you possess the ability to call upon the true beauty of a poets words, emotion and pain abiding and clinging savagely within your every verse. Perhaps the best factor regarding this poem is its narrative and expressive tone.

I look forward to reading more of your work.

[FlatDaddy]

You posted your review 13 years ago and I am just now responding. What a cad I am, not addressing your words with at least a thank you. The thing is, I don't often come here, to this page. But I do thank you for this and am glad you are my friend.

[FlatDaddy]

By the way, I'm having trouble seeing your page. Almost every time I try to go there , like moments ago, it breaks and I get this message: "scmplayer.net refused to connect."