Filed under dead

Withered down to shroud, buried in in-articulation, the words have gone, drawn back to the frozen buried centre. Mouth shut, barricaded against  self. I am statue with my last eyes,  bundles of  the ill confined- taut, too tight and straight to carry me.  MB

The drop.

Webs of interpersonal conflict. Hashtag the grief tales.
No uplift as the earth cracks, as little witches huddle and squeak. The war of swimming in the uncaring made visible.
Your destiny is never tied to anyone who would leave you. MB

CPA slog/post spain drip

" I see the stares, the glances, the disbelief, the doubt. I see people humoring me. Terrified of me. Placating me. Dismissing me. I hear the hushed tones: “That’s the girl who thinks she can feel Wi-Fi .” Everyone wants proof... Because no one wants any of this to be true. No one wants to imagine for a second that their digital devices might be harming them; or that their smart gadgets might not be so smart after all; or that their hyper-connected homes, offices, cars and transport systems might lead to a public health crisis of epic proportions. "


http://magazine.nd.edu/news/i-am-an-emf-refugee/

Nurturing the invisible wounds

She has a big laugh and a bright strut that turned outwards. These are strong  bones they say; but there are  other thoughts that struggle with the night, like mutinous sailors with invisble shanks. Sharp hands in  Rough seas,treacherous deeps where  raggedy ships  lose  their  moorings  on the cut of  wrecking decks and razzored wire, as all points bury to the  break.  MB

Halitosis

Maudlin and maithering, oblique hands intrude and separate; the press of oppress  as a new  hope moves from joy to  indifferent wanderings in a brave new year. He blocks my breath and rapes my joy. Oh the malignant pea-cockery of  this malevolent  boy. MB

Get me out of here

Stress points erupting in work non-bliss as the joyful positive of a new year looks on.











© MB

Audit atomic, halitosis and other things

Lines one does not cross, rough passage and sharp cuts,
the bruising kind admired from a distance, like the last connect with regret between it’s  legs.
My friendly executioner; bloody deep in movements that must never be. Friends and has-beens that pass and meet. MB