Palo santo and Jamaican patties.

© MB

The breaking of Man..

I find my self here after two months on pause. I am x thousand pounds poorer in soul. Barely registering in my own existence. The Judas barter. I don't even know what I'm saying. Embers are driving these hands. Lumps of meat. broken by the struggle to be a productive dead human being. Reentry has been hard, blown to bits by the war out there. The cross hit of working bullets and ever encroaching EMF. I know I can't keep doing this. I need death or glory. I have more to say but it is all trussed up in some residual place, out of reach for now in “barely works” . Body is the priority, that and trying to hit the ground. I know I can't keep doing this, when this is not compatible with life. Each time back it gets harder to get back, more searched out things to remember. The shock of the hive in a drifting front line. Work-to-be ad-infinitum. The inauthentic creep.  MB

Broken light. (The boundaries we draw for the toxic dead)

Feeling his last hours. The rotted stink of a life gone wrong. Entombed in terminal corruption.

© MB