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: 

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

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

 

Big bad hot things: To my dad/ Jose of the sisters is coming monday for leak repairs.

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 first monday morning write after the T va.c.cination visit.

 

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

Readjusting the gates of stress.

 

The knife butcher

The knife was in .. moving against it's own serrations, within the shallow breaths even as his boot stood heavy. Laced and still muddy - Firm upon her chest. He poured in-searching for intimacy - the moment of maximal hurting. She tried to move but it was all struck dumb, Closed contact, cloying within the throat, like some ungurgled scream, thick in the slip of it's own choke. So Instead she closed her eyes, The last effort of will against the glare of his weight as her breath turned to crimson, as her lungs began to drown. Til nothing could rise. Her soul was scattering into a thousand places. For every part of her was a sorrow now marked in a protestation of eternal innocence, that would not release itself- except for  a single fragile tear that would not cry/come . MB

There's a pallet sofa disrupting my house but affirming my garden.

 The hurt of it. Waves splinter as I dive into walls that crack and ethers that spin, in the week that never was. The stress level pain of it. Bar Barco and alone at easter fails. MB

Fuck around and find out Plus liquorice moods in the morning.

 “It falls sir” , she says this more than once, eyes leading, as her breath is almost gone. There are blue lips ringed, that spread to a mottled hand, held out and pleading. There were four of them before, three now long departed- mustered hearts that fought great and brave wars. “ we were close sir” she says it, as if to acknowledge them, as her lips slip words towards some other time- away from the poor gates of this bleak dark house and all it's under crowded things. She will rattle loose, with these final clotted breaths; a dreary aspect, drudging up some old, long forgotten hill. These are the last rites, which like a ghost, move through papery walls in fast and fading light.“Oh sir”, she says, lips half moving, as for one last time she searches his tall kind face. For he is a gentleman physician, used to such things, and she - only one of the lowly and dim witted;  who foolishly give their hearts and souls away/ in play. MB

Today my office was benamaurel/ Fluctuating into the grave.

She wanted  the feeling of drowning into ground, following it deeply, following it down. Deep into  still folds, dark where the life stopped, and  breath drained away.  A place where all things stopped,  a place she could stay; falling  and deepening, keeping to her self;  no longer registered, no longer carried or felt.The  Deep waters of forgetting, dark like a lake, a place where the heart stops, no longer awake..MB

The slap/Je regrette/ghost speech

 Loose portal valour, sprung from my tongue, snatching the throat out, ripping the young,. 

Deep injured impact, a kick of the brave, struck like a mac truck, all locks engaged . 

Brawling all over me, blitheringly wtrong- bruised up and welting, wicked and strong. 

Where do words come from, waiting in time? like a bad spoken bullet, a witness to crime.

 I sincerely regret it, honestly I do. Bled  flesh now wilting- smacked down anew. MB

The dark arts of sabotage.

 He hurts frequently, actively; desperate with his intent to reduce all subjects to the thing stuck beneath his feet, the shit scrapped off, then left in its smelling, smile-less bleeding. A charge of active vile destruction, like some sort of ordered up desecration- bambi with an Ak hollow point to the brain. The kick from God, he of the complex pain; the cut corrected on to others.

He percives everything 'cept the full frontal, reckless-brutal take down that he gives. AdiM of the projection is his name. MB

She shut me down

Crushed across all things, till nothing is straight. Robbed till I cant speak,. Fuck you suzy Q. Your fog is the home of my regret. MB

The house is very trying/ hanging with the tension of no firends since paula left/ Making bread for pitchforks.

 

Sasha

She does not want the good thing in her hand. It is too bright for her, too strong, too burning. It is a discomfort, an infestation- so instead she becomes the subtle rising to my falling in the chaos of wanting to belong throat. That no comfort place. Too high above the ground, riding the currents alone. She likes small circles and bright things. Things that do not give, things that let her down. Every part of her is a liar, and yet I seek admittance to this blood dead heart with the jet black tongue. It is loneliness, because  with her there is no light, or give, or mutual offering; she is entirely dormant, like the false rays of a false sun-  tearing the world up, leaving the world wrong.I am both hooked, enthralled and simultaneously rejected . I need a friend, I want support, and yet with her I am pesistently rejected. She must never be the thing I want. MB

Breathing air in a house via the gaps near the floor.

 

Chris.

I remember the first time I saw him, sat back, leaning on his chair - relaxed, in a room full of other kinds of people. Their superficial activity contrasting with the stillness of his soul. His vibe, a tribe I immediately recognised and gravitated towards, as if it was my own. We had a sweet unfurling after that, mutual, even though I still approached the wire with caution. And at each step of subsequent nearness; a natural kind of acceptance would emerge; one I would be amazed by- with none of the usual rejection and or fleeing away on foot. It seemed clearly, that,for this one, I was not too much. For he seemed to hold me tight and as precious as they come. It was all heart, the way he walked and talked the perimeters of my lines, not fleeing or fainting like the rest. Clearly, I was not too much in this meeting of intelligent hearts and minds. I needed that, I thought he was the best. I believed i'd made contact and a friend. I have no explanation for what came after that. I wonder if he was a small man, a thin man, a man with bending bones, a man for whom the weight of a large female body became too much; that perhaps it impinged upon and threw him out of his own orbit; all those heavy mounds and heavenly- coils of emotional female flesh. This older woman story, with the scratchy walls, and the past that burrows into sometimes mess. I Wonder if his legs began to seize and buckle, as he first took, and then sank within the weight. Whether his eyes bulged as his manhood shrank with a stomach that rolled in big, nauseous, not-quite so-grown-up- enough-mature-man waves. I wonder if it was the pressure of saying yes, when the shrinking tongue inside him, could not say no. I dont know what unmet need it was, that caused this sweet young lamb of a boy to break his vows and go. I do not want to scratch or bite or break the past, or diminish the soft light of sweet intensity with which it glowed. In all honesty it  would makes no sense or difference; except to say that the air has gone and all the fields now lie silent; bathed only in a red flush of poppies; their broken stalks and black-eyed gaze, the only indentations in a newly dug, and as yet corpse-less, unidentified grave. MB

Christos.. and so the work begins..

We two unmet wanderers who fell from stars, now look past each other like a knife to the heart. Like broken down sentences behind missing lines. We fade into nothing ahead of our time. MB