His surety of control was flanked by hubris, skull like eyes and haughty rightness, he sucked the air, and then he sucked the earth to dryness- and yet she still let him in. What things we squander upon all the things that don't sit right, they leave us with no space, and a perpetual rigormortis of the life. MB
My mouth is a station, a border wall brutally manned.
My teeth are the sentries, my tongue, the unloaded gun.
And with it, htere is non-shriek of silence; a mute of hair-trigger rounds,
These are the defences of my killing army of violence, that long to blaze your error to the ground. MB
The beaded elvis suit
Threads, like loose billowing waves. Rough notes where she wanted to stay. Bright and blind. Soft work, firm within the coil, hard in the underlay. Shimmers, and silent tracks of things. A pattern within the order.
Shoes , she remembered, she had worn them; before she had boarded the train where they had welcomed her with diamonds; and at the hospital, a queer place, where poor folks gathered beside deep pools into which they dived/lay. She too had had her turn, as an efficient nurse directed; until the music stopped and she, the main element, had waited in her beaded suit; for those were the night places; cut off but wholly in the drift of their own self thinking. But now, eyes open, in the morning bed, she fought the layers upwards into her day. MB
