Amberlouie

The Fog shifts between states, your moods are fault zones and only you can sing the mermaid song. The body of water blots out into distance of moss broth. A kind of swampy existence, like living with mold and mice. I'm nauseated by the constancy of this map that goes nowhere. This is a small mercy for you, relying on the natural phenomena that is gravity, the geneological magnetism that spits blood and says, daughter, this wasteland of us. You emerge out of that mud, hair sculpted like a bronze goddess and taught fear to live inside me. If I let you, you'll drown me with your rituals, rules, your menace, a kind of mummery. It leav

the sound of rising: traffic on the road and between siren and bird, the two keep rhythm. everything falls apart, pre-collison you feel the atria, the brass glow of the tuba, stuttering out a tenor voice, this suffering. the day pinches you out from your cave of cotton and wool. the beginning of time happens every morning. the city disguises reflections with cloud and the asphalt feasts on this darkness. wind makes your skin secondary and like armour, you become reptilian.

She dreamt in the morning, the bed half empty with the sheets harnessing her body. In the dream there was only a street corner, the rest of the street a white mass, yet to be sketched. Her face wasn’t her own, but she could feel each tendon move and the sensation follow. The bicycle rested against her thigh, a replica of the one her dad bought back in ’87. She ran a hand through the two-tone streamers as she waited for the newspapers, and turned her face just as the wind smoothed by. In the white basket laid a baby wrapped in newspaper, its face woven red, but when she tried to pick the newborn up, her arms changed. They merged to t