april 5 2013

and what is under our feet and for each of us its two skulls have surfaced
where our feet treads I hear live lambs explore with their voices, comes trembling over curious upright squeaking seeking these sunken bones contain their beauties their slow management back to the ooze- another squeal clear but hidden just above the pond not knowing we are here unknowing who we are and the words ….in the sleet snow and….return…the mustard all stand at the churned…mud pond was here walked to…into water bones two skulls melt air…feet so long..invited..much moved, burned in water – just noticed a pen of mine left here long ago C remembers something falling my glove now…
not mine now I am happy to leave its disintegration to the pons too somehow it has journeyed away – completely different place
another lamb cry another lamb curious
we are twisted with mangled bodies blood held in coils full of water bits and pieces all parts twisted and mashed and clumped over the field just left, deterrent?, too new, too cold
my feet in boots are deep in this mustard mud I look at the jaw bone and eye socket of my near skull and feet juggled – too many mangled sheep on the field, a great sadness not our fundamental joy this wrenches this almost does not want to be captured some deaths are too violent, too unjust that questions arise again – death is there, death is life today its nauseating sickening as bloody as war, I understand the wrenching of  grief, the madness, the envelopment the sickening unworthiness, the mangling into the twisting , pulling, wrenching, ripping, raw rubbing rage lust   survival
this quiet place is sad today with a long grief the perfect ripples annoying in their beauty today
except raw except awe a pitiless stomach a withdrawing eye a pity
pity that almost makes one withdraw, remove, not want to sink in I don’t want to sink into this lacklustre cruelty worldly cruelty weather cruelty whatever is happening cruelty
I know this is my worship place but today prayers feel bleary and scattered like the innards, like the new flesh, blood intestines still full  eyes pecked twisted hooves blood held in plastic like inner tubes filling up with rain to run a lighter prettier red but manufactured – innards too much colour makes them too close and recoil happens from them and the self for looking except we are here to look to gather to immerse so I aim to, I try too, I keep going, the skull near my foot opening, moving its eye, looking up to the sky – the jaw full of teeth dirty as the inside of an unlocked pyramid, that dust of discovery after many years, here is silt is water made
I actually want to go closer put my face on the water near this skull be side by side with another skeleton share a water bed some sort of comfort that we all remain the same evolving bone inside that needs to go to earth to be buried again
lamb judder so high pitched and the wind moves high and the branch I am on wiggles I am alone with skulls
the voice of a new lamb
dead lambs
rain
sunk deep now into the falseness of my own stupid cries- one thinks one is over and able to be aware then you do the most unaware thinking it is in care but really just insecurity and righteousness – its like today – we are given death mangled early death instead of our beloved home to really be present is endless and changing
do we ever learn to deepen or as we go does it push us back with obstacles unexpected the sick taste in the mouth, the mottled mind that longs for purity yet
another cry close and high, one further away low answers, tucks in its sqreech I have never sat so long in snow sleet rain with my legs up to calves in cold water looking at a skull hearing lamb songs trying so hard to sink and yet held strung up on behaviour
another cry they are like cries though they are the voices

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The wreckage of the ewe hits us first, they haven’t moved the body
Gorged and picked of flesh, bones and fleece shockingly spread in the aftermath of a feeding frenzy. Sleet numbs our skin, as we walk a cold massacre unfolds lamb after lamb, 11, and another ewe, little flat heaps of black and white dotting the fields, decapitated, jawless, eyeless, arseless, inside out baby gargoyles, blood roses, We are silenced by the reaped carrion harvest,
digesting today’s lesson

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Omens
Superstition haunting
the scratchy edgeland
leaking disturbance

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Where are the comfortable old bones now?
Treading the sunken water
I kick the skull I had imagined, into being
I knew it was there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wandering through the silky mire, Composting in watery graves
Submerged souls seep in silt cloudy pools dispersing downstream                             Drinking ancient life through a purifying straw, filtering the wild

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