Broken is who and what I am. Every day I see the pieces of my armor falling to the floor. I am that tragic secret whispered among the thorns. An embalmed mannequin morphing into a rotting corpse. A piece of trash waiting for Sanitation to pick me up and deposit me on the refuse heap. The Reaper comes for his Harvest as the Char Man makes his daily delivery to Sanford & Son. Elizabeth I’ll see you soon.
When did the explosion happen? Who knows? Because I think it was really an implosion. Being a Nightmare waiting to be born. Somebody put a dent in my universe which I don’t know how to repair.
Save your prayers. Save Your Prayers for stones on the ground. Each prayer causes me to die a little each second of every day. Wash away the guilt and shame so embedded that you need to kill parts of your brain to live.
Let me go back to the nobody I’ve always been. One with nothing to prove.
I am not mortar and stone. I am bubbling flesh bursting at the seams. In my dreams I’m someone else. Somebody else. An important person. A person with a mission, passion and purpose. Going up in the air ready to crash into the next mountain peak. Brought low. Brought back to earth. Reality.
Birthing a mummified child. Dear Dead One How long were you within me? He just kept stabbing at my web of lies whilst becoming entangled within its sticky threads. Pain Follows even to the most secret hiding places.
Something inside me broke. Perhaps because I have so much internal conflict and when I’m with Stephen I can take off the mask. But then again I’m broken. I’m a Nightmare the gods
For several weeks something within me has been breaking, collapsing, pieces falling apart. Rolling across the earth. Some swallowed up. Whatever Control I thought I had is long gone. Tiredness and exhaustion have stolen my immortal soul. When you’re lost you no longer know who you are.
As I try to erase and blot out the voices of those telling me who I should be and how to get there. But I know to ask why. Don’t Put Your Chains on me for I’ve Made My Bed in the Land of Other.
Because I don’t want to join your journey………… For I’m Only a Few Steps Away from Grace….
For Mable Palmer who did not survivor cancer but lives on in our collective memories.
Land formerly wood, concrete and metal of long forgotten torn down buildings must give way to Queen Gaia as she Reclaims Land abandoned whilst She Festooning it with wild Beauty.
No. Not weeds to Her. But cordial Flora, Plants, bushes, sapling trees, flowers finding a home plus phenomenal growth where no man can pass allowing birds and small animals sanctuary during spring into summer.
Dancing happily flowing with gentle breezes. Tonight the woodland Nymphs shall dance with abandon around and through dusky moss green covers.
All Photos taken along Fulton Street in Brooklyn, NY.
I must have ran 40 blocks after I got the news. And that damned parrot would not shut up! Aunt Beatrice came and got him while me flying down the streets with no coat, hat, gloves or even a scarf on a cold freezing pre-Christmas day. Down Fulton Street. Decomposition. A Rotted Christmas Gift. Which Morgue? I’m assigned to find you.
To this day I still hate Christmas and always will.
Fulton’s Folly redux.
Oblivious to cars, speeding past rickety boarded up storefront churches, racing around and through stagnant pedestrians. Cars honking. Screeching to an unexpected halt as fleet form weaves speed through traffic Loom gossamer spider webs. If I run fast enough to the morgue maybe I’ll still have a chance to remind his body to arise for the Tree Lightening Ceremony.
The Forest. I’ll run into the woods. There I found the magnificent corpse of a Unicorn. Majestic but I didn’t know what to do with it. Wasps had made a home inside the stomach cavity. Carrying life from death. I could smell syrup and honey mixed with Holiday Candy Canes. My dreams, goals and plans for the future. Disemboweled.
The Way of Wings is to fly. Where Sweet Harbor lies.
She Triumphant Playing Parlor Games exuded Vibrato from wild god’s Olde Apothecary Shoppe. When a Heroine falls. She dies alone. Forgotten and lost to the ages. She had only a passing acquaintance with sanity.
Each Day Jesus Cries for those condemned to the altars of bloody sacrifice.
Simon says. You learn quickly to do what Simon says or you’re out of the game. For Simon is Jigsaw.
I am Liquid Stranger. Pour me down your gullet and drink. Sonic blooms decorate never desecrate. Welcome to the Hotel California where guests check in but they never check out.
What are you? A human Jukebox? Why must every crime scene trigger a song for you?
Creatures of DizComfort. Radio Check.
She left off the beauty of decomposing remains.
Jules left her back door open all the time. Rain storms, Torrential rain. Cyclonic winds. All in the name of our local Rev. Pastor Rod Golden who gave daily as well as nightly highly personalized counseling sessions. More like Golden Rod as his ratings and popularity with the recent widows and divorcees bordered on scandalous.
There was a gash in her head. Stab wounds all over her torso. She was a bloody bashed in mess. Salted molten lava gush from her……….. Looks like she was bayoneted 1000 times.
She was the niche that somebody carved out like a holy day gourd.
There is much beauty in empty overgrown abandoned lots as in the well kept garden with front and backyards. Mother Nature reclaims her own. Including the hidden bodies. More gifts to be discovered on Christmas day.
This one’s D.O.A. I’m hungry. Let’s go get a sandwich or a burger. Make mine rare.
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