Mayburgh Henge

Body

Locked in, this poor,
Cold, wind battered,
Rain sodden,
Barren stone
Speaks ...

Where is it felt?

In the body,
Viscerally.
In the hug-less arms
With diminishing strength
Muscles ache and wither.

In the hand that cannot hold,
In the touch-less world
The senses shrivel.

In the gut,
The tidal surge and suck
Eviscerated, torn apart and strung out
A medieval torture of the primitive
Limbic self.
Punishment for love.

Cells fizz in confusion,
A shaken lemonade
Of lost identities.
Lung cells, liver cells,
With once structured trajectories
Mutate, crash and burn.
A stellar orbit of chaos and confusion.

This body is a car crash,
An impact with death
All parts scattered.

This Frankenstein body,
A misshapen heap,
A form-less jumble of use-less parts,
A body in collapse.

Grief is rape.
A rape of being,
Of life.
Fucked over;
An involuntary crime
Upon the living
By death.

In bed
(A raft of the Medusa)
Shipwrecked
Tossed in storms on endless seas
With an anchor that cannot catch on
This bottomless ocean.

Descartes got it wrong -
I feel, not think,
Therefore, I am.
What remains of this body
Cowers in the corner,
Crawls in the gutter,
Cries blood from its toes
As the life blood drains
And ebbs away.
Loss sucks the life out of survivors,
A slow torture and a living death.

Leaving behind,
A locked in stone monument,
Alone in the landscape,
As the world carries on.