shudders to a halt

4:30 am Thursday 25 August

laura marling – narrow road

Your turned image, floating in a white background, rotating while we wait for transitions. Ice cream van chimes accompany these visitations. We itch for her. We await her complexity and sugar burn. Shape shifter. Page turner. We lick her sweetness from the dew…

They signed us to their contracts years ago….before we even existed. We fell into their arms and were tossed into shape. These streets echo the stunned silence, the astonishment, with the creaking sound of the latch key at the ready, hiding by windows and doors, avoiding sighting by the collectors. Suits out to convert to causes and read meters, to deliver the news, that you owe so much…to them…for your existence. Bin it…

Your themed likeness rotates on the spit…here, we read from the Old Books, regurgita, effluvia. We eat them up and spit them back out as new rewritings. Metallic grinding hums low like mating machines, like drones’ sonic shadow. A wake up call from hell…

This cage is deep. I know because I built it…in the midst of the night, with my eyes closed, channeling, your echoes, memories, dreams. Old books pile up around me, re-returning their old stamps….their spines snap open and unglue the pages, slipping out and floating off on the whisp of a fragrance. Microbial agencies take over and infiltrate the systems, causing havoc with the membrane…
…you remember this?

Here…be all your excuses, your turned pages…around the corner, embedded on walls…matter moving so fast it switches dimensions….the ground heaves, like the throat of a slow eater…

The assassination booth was occupied. They took out the wrong man. You walked like some lucky Lincoln. This was some show as you stretched the canvas of existence and woke up the neighbourhood. You really shouldn’t be here. Go home before you fall foul. Decaying ghost figures…dull tones emanate from the maw…the sound of releasing brakes hissing as the vehicle

I end up with estranged family. The tail end. My brother’s line. I don’t know why I am there, I cannot avoid it. I try to walk past, walk away, like usual. Fake Monopoly fivers on the ground. She sees me look at them. I say hello. I sit at the table. I crumble.

“What is it like being you?” she asks.

I try to say I don’t know. There are levels of meaning here.  Somehow my brother ghosts me here.  I crumble and fold at the table. She holds me and starts a session of healing, of gypsy reading. She becomes another, darker, still her, her mother. She knows my pain…that nothing can make me happy…that I am not using it…that it has a trap as well as a release. She reads me so well. My brother breaks into some fake Irish about her having The Gift. Still having it. His daughter is not pleased but respects what is happening. This is hard for them, for us all. This is all I can give them…even if I feel they want more. These obligations are chains. I am not free, bonded to these feelings. I have a questionnaire to fill in afterwards about how it went. I am very emotional. I have been exposed to myself. Mirrored.

What did she ask me?

She asked if I did something. If I followed what someone said. A guide. The resistances, the faults were where the answers were. I felt I needed no answers but she said I could not keep pretending I was some good guy, waiting to be found. The overlooked, the taken for granted, that was calling me , giving me lessons. It needed response or it would poison me, destroy me. In the flaws, in the Avoided…

joan as policewoman – start of my heart


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