EV overnight + New fucking Clampit boiler! DE through the roof! #howmuchmore

She hadn't spoke in a year, instead the wound had passed through  skin to some other place of residence. Layered over until it was lost. Each year dimming with uncertainty, forming under words, like a sore that had been forgot. The thing had a heaviness-  like joy drawn down through the layers, till it separated, and then removed it's self completely,,  So that in the end only the surface was speaking through a  beleaguered front of empty actions, like light dying  and fading slowly- like as a bruise within a scar.

Monday morning renovation dread

 

A woman, with a cap, the nape of her neck, brittle like old drift wood, as it clings like a rope, as if in full swing,  all will be broken, shoved up into the eaves, where the fires, move and crack, and the small combustibles, crouched together, wait their tutn, watching for the black man to finally climbin the stairs, as the first step creeks, waiting for him to kick in the door. as with each new remembering, the embers burn. Thing that happened, things forgot , incidences he inhabited. Us Staring at the white square, as undefeated he tries to get in. MB

The internet is down

 

The sky freezes, as the ship rises deep in it's hull, banking almost vertical as it fights the torment of blue black moving motion. All men are bracing now, black figures buttoned up, their spirits almost spent,as they have warriored for days now in the black futility against the water and the ice. But there is one, that is more distinct than the rest, his blue cornish eyes stare out from beneath blonde cornish hair, the golden cornish face frozen, ruddy and complex. His name is Silas Weisbach, dark and solid he regards the torrent, unmoving from beneath a seaman's coat wrapped so high, his face is almost veiled. He is closed and as dark, and put away as the great sail, pulled and tightly coiled around him, Like all of his possessions the coat, and everything he owns came out of a great mahogany trunk, the teak, bought from Africa, and found one day in a way ward market, many summer's ago. A small, domestic earthy homely place where the great rolling coast of the green goes all the way down , and the small places cling to the land till it meets the deepest blue. Then he had been a young midship man, collecting ashore, stacking provisions, long before/and/ the Hindelacht had not yet set out on it's last and fatal voyage

But for now, he is pulled tightly and cannot think of the things that will not be seen again, because Sila Weibach, only son of his mother's love such knows as he watches the great bough rising, in the rough of the collapsing waters that at 23 years old the day that he was fated to leave this earth is finally, and undeniably here. MB

Bamboo papers x3

 

There was nothing in the air, that wasn't unfiltered, and yet the air was stale and lost, it had disappeared within the messed up currents and streams of a ship in overload. The constant over light with it's gamma rays that drained t and damned them all; till listless and unmoving, all any of them could do was lay within their bunks, praying to a God beyond salvation; as the ship without it's navigation sailed hopelessly on and on. Entombed within the hot metallic air, that dug them out in a constantcy of insufferable heat, as each new hour drew them nearer to the sun. Like most of them, She gave into it, damp in a her thinn cotton vesst, and matching pants, regulation issue, one hand flat under her head, as on her side she faced towards the wall,  the heat on he rskin, drying, and baking, and then frying some more. The soft, lumpy shape of her bed roll beneath, a false reminder of the former nights of impossible cold when they had led alpha 2, 1. The most outwardly planet; were now no more.Now here she was burning up, and waiting to die and  If she felt anything it was that she felt nothing at all. As it sat still and as yet behind her mind.Yet somehow she accepted it  Keeping her away from the hysteria, keeping her somehow still lucid yet somehow still away from her self,.In a few more days, if they had that, the symptoms would come. But for now with what was left ? Like the ship she drifted, so did she-   The academy for that si , now a distant memory- and with it the great arc structures and possibilities that like stars had shone  high over her head. Back on earth, back before the happening, back before any of this, before she, like the ship had become immobilized  trapped and toxic, carrying their bodies, like a coffin still afloat,. On and on, moving through the black , on through the heat and dark of space, sslowly taking them over, following an/the aberrant electronic trace. MB

Thank God for rain.. (there was no possibility of them doing any work today).

 

A woman, with a cap, the nape of her neck, tender and brittle like wood,, it clings to her like a rope, as if she will swing, and with it, everything will eb broken, shoved up into the eaves, where the fires, move and crack, where the combustibles wait their tutn,, crouched together watching for the black man below, the one who is finally climbing the stairs, as the first oen creeks, waiting for him to kick it all down. with each new rembembering, from the embers, of where the thing happened, the forgotten, incidences he inhabited before, Staring att he white squatre, as he trieds to get in. MB

The night before ceragem/primal stuck gouging

  The world had run her over. Inner Secrets moribund, advanced communications gone. The words no longer spoke. The stars no longer shone MB 

Still solar eclipsing, and avoiding people.

 

The battle.

The white hands still hold the blade. But the shaft has sunk in, with little hooks, that catch beneath, drawing the breather under. The morning is still, creeping over the rim, revealing the desolation; which in the first light shows it'self, laid wide and bare,with no movement save for the folorn black hubs where embers and smoke are still rising. Deep gouges of the land where the home bryres used to sit. The gathering houses of the kin. Her kin. But the kin folk have all gone- the desolation of the light shows it; in the burnt valley with it's blown out forms. She is pulled back from them now, as the stab of pain once again catches. Her ribs disintegrating. Even now there is something splintering , something foul that has cracked forward and is now rising. The barb!. It was poisoned. All kilahr metal work is. She should of known it. It will not be long now. She feels it, the dark pouring of the magic rushing in. Soon will come the blackness of the broken sanctuary. The deep sleep, that like a heavy cape that will follow. She has failed , she knows this, as she tries to move against the pain, and once more catch sight of all the blasted devastation down below. Her people. Thrown out, and brutal in their deaths, deaths that now only her dwindling eyes, for a few more minutes will recall. The last of her race. No more survivors of her people. MB

Back up part I ( poems from before)

 

09.01.24

The shield man's stop.

It is shut and folded, a moderate inflammation. Empty unguarded walls run, dried-out, dead. Here all the colours bleed; The lost hard expressions within the remnants of not said. Jilted, steady warriors, in an ashen waxy set. He is a fallen man, bearing small meagre things, old things from a drying world, odd things things that even now feel the calling of the hour. A temporaryness. Love abandoned here.

25.02.24

Prayer and morning pages again/ forever final last two weeks with manji?

Manjiism

She had fallen off too quickly, too smashed by the forced fiction; The steady, everyday, non stop,over-pressing momentum of the last 12 weeks.  Everything had become outside. Haphazard, and unsteady in the self. Moving too quickly in the agony of electronics and over arching people please. No wonder it had got lost. The artist's voice?  The  one true rhythm of the self? Those struggles of the reaches with the  false base beneath. This is  9-5 fighting.Inside the hammering present, and the drowning of right just to be. MB

get me back to this: 

Granada airport 8th november ( 23)

Recent trials

The phone had rung deliberately, shrill and urgent, piercing her indecision, with the last batterings of a life that was closing. She knew that, as she had looked towards the forbidding monster, an ugly last century monstrous bakelite, that she had never liked. But lucka had, and Luka had chosen it, on some anniversary somewhere..Back when he had tried to carry all the things, that she could no longer bare to know, until finally, they had both decidedly broken.

The phone had continued to wail on and off like a hungry child; as she had tacked across the rich herring bone floors. French white oak. Imported; and still incessant and repeating, the phone had continued as she had picked up her cases, and walked out of her own front door. The keys she posted through the letterbox. A distraught luca would would find them later. He had loved her, in between all her absent spaces, and for a while she had loved him back, until today, not unlike an exit that opens too quickly, and without air or reason, she had breached towards the surface. To  crowded  sky, in abstract forms, low against brown and distant hills, even with the drone of the air port behind it. Whatever it was she recognised this place, as a place without restraint, without pretence. Just another somewhere moving in a new light. Shifting her bags, a taxi, had approached, like on old man fumbling his way out of the now crowded taxi rank; “where to” he had said, as she had hopped onto the back seat of the car. in a strange growl that was so particular of these parts. For a while she had said nothing, distracted by the people on the side walk of the rank, struggling with luggage, whilst foraging for a mutually offered encompasing embrace; clumps of overcome distance mixed with the half familiar,like a pair of old loves, in a tight circle, and a small child. They were caught in some rudimentary procession, that she was unfamiliar with. The sorties of the connected. And so the driver had asked again, but this time, she had met his eyes, with the covering distance of her own, he had paused looking at her through the mirror, as if in semi doubt; before finally answering for her “ the centre”? And she so had assented not so much in words, but with something that this new place, unlike Luka, would immediately understand. And so he had pulled out into the burgeoning stream of others; she with her head still turned to watch the last of the reuniting family, just as the old man, jolly and brave had lifted up the small and squirming child, like a great papa bear pawing with a salmon. With one last glimpse she had watched them disappear; as the car snaked out fast now,in a new direction towards the new and distant city, with all it's histories that sit around  edges, things she knows she will have to face later. But now was only for the smooth soft momentum, of being capably carried, stretched out, and sunk comfortably back in her seat.. MB

Russian attacks: back in the discombobulated mind stew. palm sunday: Jesus is King!

 Cosmic silence scouring for some place of movement, beyond the well worn, and the yet to burst. MB

God help us : Audrey's phone is back tomorrow.

 

The shield man's stop.

It is shut and folded a moderate inflammation. Empty unguarded walls run, dried-out, dead. Here all the colours bleed; lost hard expressions within the remnants of not said. Jilted, steady warriors, in an ashen waxy set. He is a fallen man, bearing small meagre things, old things from a dying world, odd things things that even now feel the pulling of the hour. A temporaryness of love to be abandoned here. MB

KW's tribunal report

 

Trudging through the days, the fighting,skimming dark. The world worn heavy, things not freed up. The day went smooth, Farhad was calm. Got shouted out (several times),  a apocryphal firm up and adjust. But  still the roads slide away. In the afternoon, got zoomed in the high towers, the aberration of heat, spewed over by the great things on tall buildings, the flat screens and hard beasts, that boom and beat, and beat. It was all flouro yellow, but then there was a tree. The failing iron oxide, light and life colours, that soft -float gently towards the dead. The great earth, and her wide girth. Sixty years of old fingers, hovering over me. The home beat - wotsits, and salted caramel. To bath boil,in gently speculating death.The rip tides. The rides, and gentry. Stretched and stressed again. My sink holds, of the upper chanels. Sink holds that mean that at last I can again speak. MB

House crunch, in the electric V. No leads, and only 400 quid left.

 His hands

She was at the sea again, the indiffereing waves, against the edge, sweeping with an ever press of wandering worry; even as the shore was closed. She was in the base stumps, old hurts with the dead lines that void around existence. For some months now, she had sat solid lapsing into low begotten spaces, stopped solid as a stone; as still as a statue, thwarted at all ends, as palms turned upwards, ever reaching for an absent light. Into this ever narrowing ravine, the hurts of the hunted had gathered.; retracing the land gaps through which she had fallen. There he had sat, a little too detained behind the lines; loose and dark, an upright shadow with hollowing eyes. Like a wraith he had seeped, and suckered, till she had lost something. What it was , she couldn't exactly say; other than some how in the process, the very real mechanics of her life had altered . She didnt know how she had got there, or even if the removal had happened the same day, but some how, he had drawn her tight, till all quiver of her life had gone away. Craven and misaligning, Such was his healing. A mortician in the cemetery had passed her way. MB

Yesterday's write. Today back to shungite.

 The Grasp ends..

My neck's stove in, broke upon it's own joint; line-deformed, in a world of macro falling order. Wrapped around it's own voice, no longer guttural and primal. Instead, it seeps along a hidden seam; as one falls in and folds under . Oh these veins that bled from life. Guards and sentries!. Beckons and mentions! Those holy orders that fight and light the way towards the secret shore of an eternal sea; and the the right to find movement within the dark again. MB

The masseuse

“How dare you touch me” She had not said this to the coal black face; Straight like an ailment; globes heavy with absent stagnation that stared and bulged within it's own strangeness..A patriarch of a closed order- he  righteously stiffened in pious self belief. A sneer of a body, in the blue and the black; but still far removed from things. At first she had tried to remain closed, to avoid his accents; rhythmic and regular for the counting; but the hands had come in a slow conduct, that had finally struck; tall and thrifty, and mean with the giving. And so she had sat, overspent and long  along the body, straining under skin; fleeing the touching and the feeling. But in the end, it was of no use-  he had pressed all things in-  in a self- obliterating, queer-adulterating payload; unique to his own particular, discombobulating self blend. He had not earned what he could not deliver. And so she was stuck with the Blasphemy of the thing.  MB

10 days and still no plumber/money run or macro fail dilemas?

 

He robbed me/ reverting back to the path/slipping my skin moorings

It had all seized up, the rough- said parts, where she had caved. Was it in ? Or under? she wasn't sure, except to say that things had slid, and now the head marooned, sat stiffly like some mute siren-shriek, atop a pole. Mournful on the rocks, dragged in by the tides and the unsafe modesty below. These were the places where she suffered openly, but in secret, behind a line, in degrees that separated from reason. Nursing her tomb, the underling; neglected and rejected in full parts. The soft placed power of the old ways. Full of rightness, but dangerously hemmed in. Except now the tide had caught, and new currents break, somehow no longer confounded by the past. And within these, there comes a candour- a willingness to right the line. To break lose of all the twists and turns; and again do that dangerous thing:  Become a full bodied woman rising. MB

Still pissed at Donners.

The  boundaries goul.

He liked to watch behind the light, beyond the curtain

He like to touch, disturb, small spaces, closed eyes, soft bodies, that were nto his. 

He liked to feel behind the line in all things done in darkness,. hard, and rotten things, beyond the breakings that should nto be seen. 

He liked the hard horror, of the war, that fled in pieces. The whole body desecrations. Obliterations. Abominations. The obscene.

So much so that he liked to touch, in secret, and in public, private places, like a ghoul who slid, in to others'  folds that were not his/unseen. MB

Amidst the terror of a neighbourhood lateral move- a creative spurt.

 

That was the crime.

It was the year of 1805, the last war had ended, and now the murdered men, with their empty eyes were returning. Each day one would see the long lines of the trembling broke, carrying their bent legs and filthy rags, back into the city. The towns folk would stand to watch them in silent applause, as the grocers, and the other good men who had stayed; mustachioed and portly,in their crisp waistcoats,  saved from the ravages of time; glared back in indifference at these un-intact, dismembered men; whose psyches were tattered and worn. For they had seen the evil of their days, in vast standing cannons, that had pointed out from mean impressive hills, polished black, before their quarry, like, unruly gods, and generals of battles, unceasingly raining their horror to the ground. There the men, far away from everything, had huddled in their burrows, the mud climbing in with the lice and the flies, as the dead stood the hours of the seasons, from dense heat, to thick cold; from night and day, until the weeks like the maggots, turned them over to a generalised rotted, sod; and all pervasive burrowing- breaking down rot. In these hovels of dirt, Side by side, the living would plead with their fallen comrades, who now gathered as invisible witnesses, telling the sacraments of their mass; until the living too, longed for the place beyond life. Until one day, suddenly, it was over. The tide, like the world, had changed, the crimson was no longer needed. And so these last bones of men, had picked up their packs with their rifles, in a desecrating weakness. And on uneven legs, that stood un-fast, had hobbled the long lost way back to home again. MB

Hagan-Hammond's house of horror.

 

The fall

A narrow range, this intimate drift. Welts and angles, and off kilter scarring . His marks, that scream disaster - impact. The offending touch. Narrowed and quartered, to small pieces that stagger to regather. in my name.  MB

El-Guind-ass

 

The healer ( hammond 1)

 

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