Pisces moon painting/ the comfort of a regular funk walk

‘Moonrise’ by Stanislaw Maslowski

A body that no longer dances well.

Woke up not so defeated, but still impaled on thought. The ones that wont lift, beyond the hollowing cramp. of pain- that spray-strains in word bullets; pummelling a fancifully creative, dried and bloated corpse. Those rough swells with cross currents, the hard tide of a heart that wont rise. So I sink down closing all the doors, Throat stopped - under the full glare of lost.

I wish I could just unpack.. Speak myself some speak. Words authentic, reactions real. Let all the good missives find expressions of eventual cause, in things that truth and tell. Again Part of the mother and the holy roman broken shell. I need these lights to bleed me back into the red beyond this despicable nothing and the judgement of God. MB