The holy bike ride of spring and congested places.

 

16.02.26 MOnday

Almeria/ Mother  birthday/ I have not missed you for a minute.

You gave nothing, offered less, but the suck was there, underneath. The games of extraction/ repositioning your nails, to drive your fucked up in harder. like a mallet, to a flower. You gave nothing on which I could rest upon, to lift me over the dark or make this journey shorter. I have always been alone So Why the fuck did you call? MB

17.02.26

Heart bled in the bad lands. Wasted men. Beasts on horses, the lift of madness. These are the lands she defends burying the sound. Bright bullets locked and loaded. The secret chambers. like lamentations, the blood of old contracts, stricken in their nature. Things that depopulate, that bottom out and dig beneath. These outlands that must be guarded at all costs. She holds only the metal now, knowing only what has come. MB

18.02.26

The bleeding is fast now, she cannot staunch the wound. The fingers slip in and out of her suffering, blood red, in emnity, scarlet in it's death. Blind eyes, reach for sight, some small thing to hang a wound upon. To loosen the swell of uneven times, and lift and bear her evenly over the heathen wounds. The oaths of blood that harden. MB

19.02.26

There is the reach to the thing, the length pulled tight, coiled and gathered / wrapped up under it's self. She has buried the hurt of the thing. Unlooped, there is no word to it, a/ bright cast of a rough shell on a dead surface. Some place where they have been. love between the shadows with gentle streets. Holding hands, her statuesque and thin, him, open following a love,/ and then/ later on a/ the wound/ through old quarters,ruffled,/ between white sheets hazed light in the mornings / long lazy hours, laid in with a dark loving touch. His smell on her lips, the memory of him in he rmouth, The hours,that love slipped in gently before it finally wore it's self out.MB

20.02.26

Lobo woman..

She spoke left speaking inbetween small whispers upending the things that spilled and then gathered into stains. Off dwellings and piece meats. Etched and stitched and then Hoisted. Daily fallings of With grown hair and matted nails. The high nevadas, and deep trenches where she had laboured. High granite,tall rifts with white sliding walls of /shame. Things birthed miscarried and/ then/ slaughtered each one dead before she ever knew it's their name. Loved as they were before being beaten all the way out of her Lobo woman is her name. MB