replacing the bits..

 

The duke of Burgundy.

She had changed, the sweet had gone, it no longer  stuck or flowed like gentle night jasmine. Instead she crumbled on awkward hips, that over threw their weight, tearing her form side to side, a searing jolting pain . It was his mark. carried over from Burgundy, in and between the wars. Thick and tary in all his full, and murderous, plays; each one a sabotage, each one a deliberately, ruining aim. MB

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

 

Be careful of the words you throw away..

 

I am in flat packed space; rolling with disregard, I touch no sides and lift nothing. The deeps are dead, they have no name. Just stacked and slipped away places to forget. So  I seep under - slip into  the mute. Short starts with no happenings; other than the usual tears on hiatus. Choked around something dumb and  unconscious. My flight has gone, it no longer lifts or shines. As the house came falling, One minute I was talking; the next I had thrown myself away.  MB

Those brave battalions, who like this poet, now lie dead.

 

Self- muted from within on the sharp quiet of polite.

I garrotted my own belly, with the fullness of my  knife.

I have fired on my own men, who died selflessly and right

Their bodies heaped and moldering, along a rigid line  too tight. 

 Like wordless sentries under  fallen walls- the place my soul now drowns

Spinning to it's  under verse,  I have pulled my fortress down  MB

  

Sean/Lines crossed/pre-mojacar

The blood and the due,  mind-meld stew ,stomping ground; You drip all over me, Your loss breaks my own, fusing imperceptible boundaries, you glue yourself on; all fission and fight, mixing my lines, the me in the stagnation of you. MB

Eggshells and permission

About morning pages..

Blank ended, I feel nothing, but the touch of a hand in statue pose; my life elsewhere,  the rim beyond the ceiling in the general direction of up. Statue froze in third person, still-fully held, so much against the will. The will should never be a frozen thing, it should be  a moving tableau of your own volition, where you speak safe and halt at will on your own  demand, your demand, your boundaries,  your right to walled-nonwalls. But I erect mine high, I am a boundary farmer, cultivating distance from contact with skin. He is too much, I lost my edges, that  centimeter space around my own periphery. He tore kin away from me, examining me stiff rigid, creating a split from  end to end. The blank formed memories, act as vital stuffing, the blanket between contact, and misery. Too much analysis, too many pondering eyes,  I retreat to escape. I split to survive. MB

Consistency is the antithesis to splitting

I

The machinery of dysfunction is everywhere.There are aspects and elements that I want, but I’ve met the stuff of others. Maybe I  don’t really  care and it’s all just maintenance territory, keep them warm to keep me happy. Or is it just a soul thing that will one day eventually come around. I’m fine with where I left, not accepting the potential for a slow burn or a nice good bye. I see no reason to be involved;it's  a flesh wound in the intricacy of  scraps. Still processing the injury, probably won’t  fully eject, but we're moving in different directions on different worlds.
 I sense the separation, but I won’t  out stay my welcome. I’m
sad but it’s ordained and I won’t accept less than he- The standard moving forward, sick of being a battery or a toilet. Need to get back in my own bubble and read  more books.   This group situation  is an elevator  going down. Need to re-fall in love with my own ground.

II V

You sucked my strong, I  guess it was your stuff, but I never felt so betrayed or rejected .  Snuffed out, like  there was nothing good in me, just  the start place where  everything  reads  wrong. Is this another mother or the original feel ? Same-same.The world rejects you,  then scruff of the necks you,  declining the me in me, as it walks on. Cos It’s a v thing when they  ghost you, then turn around and misquote you  - all your saving graces machine gun blasted down . So tell your reasons, when you’re  ending, tell them loud and unceasing, everyone deserves the  truth of a good let down. MB