Chronicles of the crawl-walk decimation- repair. + night of the painful brits!

The duke of Burgundy.

She has changed, the sweet has gone, it no longer flows. Instead it crumbles on awkward hips, that over throw their weight, tearing from side to side, in searing jolting pain . It is his mark. carried over from Burgundy, in and between the wars. Each word a sabotage, and a deliberately, ruining aim. MB

Frigiliana service view

" Pork pies mister?" his is a cockney thrill. A weak accent atop a  strong and rasping hill, spoke into a cold world that humbled twice. See, he speaks like a hard gun, as if  his dreams had turned old and mean, more brutal with the remembering.  This is hard liquor thinking, sinking it's self away into futile mind-bride dances, where dumb oaths fail, and the  father of the  groom will always be a better man. The death of face. He shouts it. Fast facts in between the cracks, as life slides off. Gross across the tracks, the house is leaning;- his meanness teetering, in full view, a narc-rage tearing down. That was the war of it - between the brutal and unfed. Here there is no sofetening, only ugly, damn-ragged, gain. Because  this is the truth  of it- there are some Men who like to raze terrains, and then spread the cost upon/amongst the bleeding dead.  MB