Bella in the Limlight

Petalengro

The areas unseen and the places forgotten. Litter blows everywhere but they just look like Ghosts really. In the corner of your eye. If you have an eye to spare. Spaces. Places. But listen, in a crowd, when everyone talks and you occupy a space by yourself as they chatter and all of a sudden things go quiet and you can’t hear them talk and their mouths just move gently dribbling and spitting. Vehement love there, and anger, hilarity and sadness. They talk and weave rich patterns for themselves in the greater tapestry. But yes. Talk and wonder about things. Place yourself in the arena and partake. Unless Liminal.

The spaces between the things and you become an inbetween person you know. Just a body that will lead to another living breathing person. We stand and allow it because that’s the best course of action. It is the junction of no energy given or received; it is liminal living.

The water dripped from the tree and was alive, I think. The period, the mathematics of the drip drop was sincere and alive. It was not a cadence. It was chaos. It blinks a little in the Liminal light but it’s there and we swell up with pride a little and shake our fists at entropy and the slow rhythm of existing.

Vomiting again with the depression. Puking up in the gentle LimLight. Vomit splashed rocks, dry heave, splatter and chaos again in the dry retch. And hold onto something in case you fall into the river that isn’t ours. Coarse twigs and branches twisted into portals for your humour. Fastened with Nettle strings. Held tight against each other the loops and shapes fixed onto the Rowan branch and if you look just right. In the Moonlight. The Badgers dance.

Retch Wretch. Wasted. Dirt under fingernails. Hair tangled. Release. Please. But no. What did they do to you……dear Bella. I would do anything for a sweet taste of a simple tear.

They made Roads for us you know. Star Paths. A way to travel and see what the Stars had made for us but only Bella has travelled it so far and she waits I think, for us. What did they do to you? Bella? Their roots hold the paths still and steady so we don’t just slip and tumble into the nothing. In my hands are the parts of the Prison that are now rusted and bent, the springs locked solid. The locks sprung eternal. The whole clasp unclasped and useless. The brick work of black hard baked clay is crumbled and underfoot. I take a handful of it, I make a hole and bury what I can find of the place. Underneath everything. Hidden away in the soil horizons where it wont come back out. In the fucking dark where it belongs. Liminal.

The paths make webs between the live stars. The ones that breath like us. Cold space air that nourishes them like nothing else. Heavy metal gas in some, in others a solid mass of mineral Sun. It is what it is. It makes what it makes. I have opened and seen this. Unfolded and opened up to absorb the maps and the hasty quick exhortations to go this way and that, when all you can do is fall, and that is good also. Fall my friends. Fall you castigated thing. Fall and learn the lessons in the Limlight. The spaces between things and the spaces between people. Lit with Star fire. Lit with pains.

Fractured

It was cold and my hands were numb. The pencil was a sick thing. Blunt, sharp. lead broken here and there. It was a fractured implement. The ground was damp and there were few insects. This was Podzol territory. Hard baked by fire soil horizon. Baked fucking hard. Fire swept by here. It was harsh heat redolent. I sketched and concentrated. Each blade of grass, the Bilberry, the Calluna vulgaris. Heated moon power. Soaked into the hard baked soil.

Sketch and record while the Cannock Chase aura baked you solid too. There were Ghosts. I saw them out of the corner of my eye. They didn’t ‘flit’ they just flickered in and out. Lines of though and lines of thin lead scratch the paper and make rodent noises. Burrowing through the paper in parts where it was wet from the rain that fell. The pencil was getting smaller, retreating back into itself. Not brave and sharp but blunt often and retired. The lead smeared. The graphite was fearful of the marks it was making. There was a Stag nearby, I could smell it as it smelled me. There was no one here of course because the weather was sick and wet. My arse damp. The rain catching in the fold of my coat. Marks made and laughter gone. Scratch the image and record it. The battle scenes of the ecology. The spires of fractured Spruce, the dealings of the grasses underneath them. The want of the Moss.

Treetops as erect spears. Battle smashed from Machinery. The Battle is endless here, for space, soil and light, for water, for area where roots may stretch out for sustenance. The light subtle through the cloud. Sketch and draw while you shiver. While you stretch. A sound, a branch snapping underfoot and birds erupt from the Heather. Flying to my left. Low and relaxed. Soft flight. Eternities greyscale drama. There is no place to flee as yet. Pencils move. Things in the Grass move. I sit still, a Bell rings.

Glass Locked

Annihilation pressures for sure. I can feel them needling away on the tips of my nerves like biting insects. Burrowing creatures under the skin and skittering over the surfaces of the brain. Tingle nerves, endings not nerves, endings and beginnings or the awful tramping of the feet that belong to people you hardly know. Softer things. Delve and burrow further please. Because each play has an end, it doesn’t carry on does it? But she never says a word any more. Locked into the pane of glass, time locked and light locked. Glass Ghost.

Try and find a way though please, to inch further away from the surface and gasp for air. Try to fight and survive. They say. Do we listen any more? Sometimes, when the lights are brighter and the voices a little louder. But we smile and just laugh although the laughing, to be honest for once, is a little too loud, a little too bright. We grind. We wear down the substrate.

When Gods become Memes we suffer with them. We only 2D the groove and the vibe of God things. Little pleasures like little bites. We banish them now with disinterest as the horrors they threaten us with are nothing compared to the overtures the Great Clown throws upon our heads. Yet we are thankful for it. If not a little weepy for it. Hand on heart. The energy my friends is real.

Locked up and Lost. Broken and failed. Vision has gone. You can be free if you want if you take the choice and grip the wheel. Dread the day all you wish. Do your best if that really turns you on. Find a way to lose the fear and find freedom or let freedom find you. It’s not about me, it’s all about you. Try to find the natural hate and the hidden number is 8. Try to find your heaven in the number 7.

I have always been lonely and now that very fact succours my existence and my search for bliss. There is no helping hand here and no Knight to battle my enemies. For the enemies lie with the Knight and caress and fondle it. Yet my own hands stay still for to itch the scratch means an admission it exists. There are of course those I would curse and Hex. But that matter is best left alone for I wish no burdens to carry over that abyss I would cross eventually.

I sat and wondered about these things in the damp grass as she came down the path. She was carrying an empty bucket and had a pair of wellies on her feet, her hair was stuck to her forehead with damp sweat as further up the valley it was sunny and warm. Here it was cold and damp from the mornings rain. She never saw me in the undergrowth. I feel a large spider run across my face. Her breasts are full and unclad underneath her faded dress. Light blue with small pink flowers. Busy she was and there was no peace here after she disappeared down the track. I dug my hands into the thin soil and found bones. Animal bones. I dug deeper and they were numerous and large. Here one that had metal plates in it, screws, fractures healed. Another the same, an arm bone. Rib bones nicked with scalpel blades. Hollow and rotten from chemicals and damp. I assembled them as best I could into a complete skeleton and lay it out on the grass among the Harebells and Hawkbit. The skull leered, the jawbone without many of it’s teeth, polished almost. I removed some dirt from it’s eye sockets and looked within it but there was nothing there. Nobody sees me here tenderly touching these bones wondering what may have been and why. Above me a bird flew and made some noise and I pressed a shard of sharp bone into my neck so it would bleed me out. But my hands wouldn’t work any more and I pressed my face into the Moss and tried to sleep.

SHORN

Was it the last battle? I live of course due to your good grace but it was always an idle fancy and pretty much a fools disgrace and I am shorn and cut then you put your head over the shell hole and say ‘Yes, Shorn and cut’. What else would you say, about the world today, if you were here? A cold razor act, a simple fact.

The last fear in me flies away like a Coal black Crow, away to a place neither of us will ever know. You see? You are just a Clown like me. Puppet lovers and I am shorn and cut

We look at the fallen leaves now for Autumn is coming and a great change. The fires we had are embers and the cold storms just a passing breeze but we can still think just about, of the things we did. The subtle things. The night that was loud and we stood very proud and the medals they gave out were shined and brilliant. Cast out Demons and let them writhe on the cold floors. Let the branches grinch, let the light straps pinch. let the breathe we had just trickle out. Let everything turn and upsides are always downsides if the narrative is crooked. Fucking hell is there no end? No release. The oxygen again is low. The breathe laboured, my fingers deep in you. Your hand holding a trickling soft vomit.

Shrapnel Songs

Cold hands on very warm skin and I pluck my eyes out and offer them to you because I am lost for a moment and I think my hands have been tied. But your warm hands on my cold skin strip the flesh from bone, ripped and torn, never born. Make the last cut because my hands are tied I think. I cannot move them but I can feel your flesh move across them and I think your liquids are flowed. Or it is the blood from my eyes. I can’t tell. Would you tell me? But I think you are not really you and just a phantasm of sorts. The war is going very well thank you. I feel the rifle at my side and the small pieces of shrapnel fly past me gently tugging at the cloth of my combat jacket. I hope one hits me in the forehead and I poke my head above the trench. They warn me but I just laugh because someone is blowing a whistle and they have a dry mouth and it just farts commands. It’s good. A piece of metal slices through my stomach and blows some of my intestines across my shoulder. It’s a meat cloak, I dance because the pain is nothing but my blood pressure has gone and the oxygen to my brain is slowed. I am a retard. A fool without air. Blood is everywhere. You laugh again and so do I as you pull me towards the edge and throw me onto the corpses that litter the bottom of the shell hole.

Miss Abyss

The Abyss sucked me in and the sin of the forests put soft arms around me and I lay down and pressed my face into the soft ground. I was sucked in and twisted the archetypes in my hands as the wind blew and sucked. I smiled and you grinned. There was a subtle difference. Abyss-Abyss-Abyss placated me and it loved me. It loved me right in and the Forest hid me. Loved me, and hated me a little. We failed because the foundation was sin. I was loved in it. Dark soils piled on top of me, the flesh of the woodlands. The dark chittering of bark against twig and above the blackness yawned and took me. I laughed of course, and you grinned. There was a difference.

System Devoid of Anything

Annihilation and procrastination rhythms breed simple systems borne of ignorance

Annihilation systems love to hate, always give one thousand reasons why they are late. We tear down sacred walls and succour the reasons why we fall forgetting the fear of being born and lie awake. Torn.

The Grass had turned to dust underfoot and we laughed at the way the wind took the dried soils and threw them into swirls, small storms at knee height lifting grass and insects a little into the sky before dropping them back confused. Flotsam of the heat.

Crucifixion Selfies

He was fingering a small piece of concrete that has been prised from the wall by someone before. Someone who spent much of their time grasping the shelf underneath the small window high up on the Prisons walls. You could tell they had pulled themselves up. There was blood from the knees pushing, the toes scrabbling and the fingernails gripping to ease the body up. He did it himself and could just about see the brass and black landscape outside. There was a lone tree too and he thought perhaps if the fact that there was a rope here he could throw it over that blasted limb of the tree and just dangle for a while until the Clowns came shrieking down from the gate to kick him back to his cell. That was unlocked now.

‘You built it yourself you prick’. A whisper from underneath the window. Ghost voices.

He peeked through the door and could see everyone lined up on the balcony waiting. They can wait. Not even a pale thigh here now. Have you drunk your fill? Maybe. Or maybe I just need to drink again and remember cool water quenching the fire in the throat. The sweated hands around it. Pulling and squeezing. Manipulating the Eigen. Jump on the belly and force the air through the windpipe. Make noises, massage the throat until some half recognisable sounds emerge. Listen closely to what they mean.

It certainly wasn’t a time for making new things any more. He thought that time had passed. Maybe Ghosts were not the most reliable creatures to start a thing with. They cared for nothing except their vapid ethereal existence. And Ghosts were fucking boring any way. Magnetic aberrations, just noise really. A shrieking moaning mess, interludes, that’s it. Interludes from the boredom of the pain and the kicking, the splitting. If he saw another drop of blood he thinks he would just stare at it and not even attempt some sore of explanation for it. Little spots of blood. The beginnings of a horrible story perhaps. Who knew, or even cared.

‘It’s much worse out there’ she said. Ghost. Busy finger Ghost.

He threw the small piece of concrete at her and it went straight through of course and rattled to a rest in the corner. Ghosty thing you. Cheeky thing coming in here and giving points of view. Like the wind has something to say but it’s just a moan through a crack in the wall or window. A sight through the twigs and branches of that blasted tree. A comedy.

He tied the rope around his feet and ankles. He was naked. The holes in the wall carefully excavated with the tip of one of the three Daggers he found in the toilet basin when they made him drink the pissy shitty water. He kept them and hid them. Back in the cell he made three deep tight holes. One for each wrist and one for the ankles. Taking one dagger he hammered it through both of his crossed ankles smashing the bone and cartilage as the knife bit and erupted from the back of his left ankle. The right foot was blue now and he hammered the knife with the butt of another Dagger to make sure the hilt was pressed against his foot and tight. With his left hand he stabbed a Dagger through his right wrist. There was little blood although his ankles were bleeding well and a pool of sorts had grown about him, the blood on his left hand made him slip a little as he was standing up and he crashed to the floor opening a wide gash on his eyebrow. He had lost another tooth. Right hand Dagger through the left wrist and he was impaled with the Trinity. It was hard to stand but he did. There was enough blade there for the hole in the wall. The rope, through the hook in the ceiling, looped and half tangled. He vomited. Nothing, just air. Retch. He pulled the rope enough now that he could position the ankle dagger within the lowest hole. He bent slowly and with his palm hammered in the ankle dagger, deep into the hole he had made in the cell wall. Now can he rest his weight on it? Indeed. He was there perched. He loosed the rope which unravelled and fell to the floor. Now he must aim correctly and make sure the Daggers through his wrists hit the wall correctly, just in the right spot. The Right hand. Straight in, wedged tight. He tested it and yes, it was secure, he could not move his arm or hand. Now the left. A miss, a dull crack, a pain. A miss. He tried again, miss again. A third time. In. Now crucified by his own hand he was pinned three feet above the floor to the wall of the Cell. Good. Yes. The blood pooled black, reflective, yellow bulb shone.

Release please. An end. But there would be none. He hung there expecting to die. Expecting the Crucifixion to be magical enough that it may release him and he could be gone. But he loved this place too much of course. He could never leave. The pain his only friend, the Clowns his Confidants, the Prison his home. He laughed, this Crucified man and his belly shook, his hollow gut rippled. Even the Clowns were disgusted and gently closed the door on him as he wept.

Tenfold Split Voodoo Geometry

Good and warm in the black again. The treacle and the sticky things. Pulled over tight and all complicated so no one can really understand. That’s good. We are warm again and quiet and familiar themes lie as torn cloths and threads around and about. Good things. Anonymous tirades again. Bitter words. Targeting and the identification of victims takes place now. No places for gently putting down the blames. Just gentle sighs and whispers among the trees. It’s ok I think, to start again and blink.

There are parts of the system that have seen much action and jocularity of the Clown kind. Here is where the skin has been rubbed cleaner and thinner. Where the patina of laughter has failed to stick to the hot brass surfaces but instead has worn away a little or a lot really. But some of it has certainly been lost. That surface. That wall. Now of course where the plaster and concretes are thinner you are a little closer to God and you can feel God gently prod at you through the walls. Pushing you on, to the finish, while the Clowns for a moment stand silent and the drool gently leaks onto the floor as they wonder why I am smiling. But I’m not smiling really, it’s just a grimace, an odd reflection of the Clowns own emotionless pantomime.

You never want the answers to these questions but it’s the way and the dogma we have to follow. Ask the questions and then wait for the answers. Make up your own if you wish, get a dog to bark in the pale sun and listen to the way the sound waves and distorts according to the dim heats from above. Listen to the cold wind crackle through another tree and another fucking blasted concept landscape just taken off the shelf so at least we have another place to complain. It’s good and cool and you look great in your new shiny place you have made. It is good that the Suns you turn your face to are new and fresh and mine is Black with crooked rays that revolve to the left, 666 degrees to the left, 777 degrees from the bottom.

She was holding the Dillinger Doll she had found on the road as the UFO circled overhead. A car had ridden over it and the Bank Robber looked like Frank Sidebottom now. Deranged and flattened under tread, her fingers slightly dirty from the road dirt. She turned him over and over trying to get the Doll to speak. She shakes him and shouts at him but he is just a bundle of cloth, poor stitching and a very stupid face. He breathes a sigh of relief as he can see the blood start to slowly trickle down the gutter, slowly at first, hardly shifting the flotsam of the gulley, the cigarette ends and the discarded crap. She screams at it as the blood rain falls a little faster. “Why?!” she weeps. Man, where do I start as I move my little cloth mouth into shapes that might let a word or two escape. The fucking Nova bitches man. It’s not about the Novas any more Bill. Not the Police and not the Spies. It’s about the fucking Nova bitches man. The cloth lips mumbling as the stuffing falls out of his guts and she throws him back into the gutters full of blood because things are happening over there and here is shit now and boring.

Not Wolves but Dogs sniffing each others arseholes. It is the way of the world. Fucking Nova Dogs Billy, you never saw that coming did ya? Fresh and clean always mean, always sneered and smeared, always ready for a quick remark, a cutter of a word. A slicer for sure. I pat myself on the back as no one else will. Another bloody lock Michael but none of them are locked and nobody has a fucking key. But she rides Dragons you know and Dolls at the end of the day are an odd Voodoo. Blood on the Waterloo road and blood on the Hill, there will be blood on the evergreen and blood never sits still. Unbutton the shirt if you will and let me see, the distinct hate you have for them and me. I will sit and watch and write, the fight is gone and I sit still you see. The Nova Bitches freak easily and are free. It’s see geometry. Only when her flesh is naked will she turn the hip slightly and inside her a glint perhaps of light escapes and that’s it. It lights her flesh and illuminates it for a split second before her own wet fingers are diving and splitting the geometry. That’s it of course. All the bitches have the light and they just hide it in flesh so we cannot see it but we feel it. Just at the point of orgasm when you close your eyes and it flickers and you chase it and you again, fall.

What is to do? Another dull canvas? Another splash of colour thrown into the black and scarlet? Letters form words which can be spoken and it’s all art and misunderstanding. The Clowns are in here again and are kicking me to death. I can’t feel it any more and I am numb. One of my teeth are kicked out and falls to the floor. Clown boots, steel toe capped and polished highly. They are relentless and I don’t think I have touched the floor for about ten minutes and I am the ragged Voodoo doll in the gully. I hold the broken tooth close to my chest and the fists and the punches and the stamping goes on and the Clowns are silent. I can smell beer on their breaths. The make up they smear on is liquifying under the heat from the 23 watt lightbulb above. A bass guitar plays and someone is gruffly singing down the corridor. I vomit blood. I always vomit the blood but the walls are getting thinner my friends and the Clowns are getting dimmer.