MottledAurora: wombs-to-let

This entire world is me and always moving. And parts of my body are dying with it and I am you, and you are me, can you feel that? that little moment of exasperation, or is it just me? who is out of breath.

a womb to let is an ‘I am smoke’
Now watch as weeping shifts the walls.

Feel the city, its cycles. The cafes playlist over and over turning. The tugging conversations make me gluey clay to dig in on all fours.
Down, get down on all fours.

My tits are never milky but instead the powdery non-chalance of a never enough: ‘dig in’.
The city is my mourning.
Dig in and chew on my abdomen. Bite on my matrix; it is not an invisible question mark but a plain to see navel. Everything you say translates as ‘will it be okay?’ and what if one day I say the final, silencing ‘no’?

and take another apologetic draw. ‘don’t take a draw. Stop. Shhh.’
But the smoke is not smoke. I am smoke.
What if i cease to be smoke?
Smoke say No.
what if one day.
No.

... and make a run for it.

Because ‘yes’ is the cities on-going drop of a cry, crying caught on repeat, glitching, and there you go on, mouth twitching and drilling at my centre. My guts are screaming ‘this wishing well is bottomless’, you’ll never hear the penny drop; the drink wont touch the sides. The sides are ever receding as the I, keeps fleeing away away from you, and lifts another bloody heart to the sky.

Your ghost is smoke and smoke is my ghost.

But today I am about to make a run for it despite all that. Why should I shatter?

goodbye starry hand

A blind light catches her and on touching the bumpy braille of her shadow concludes; She is a 24 year old smoker dressed in loose clothing, slim build. Well kempt. Inappropriate smiling and laughing at points. At points; those are the grainy clusters on her skin that feel like incongruous laughter.
Appropriate eye contact throughout.
Rate, volume and tone of speech normal.
Strong smoky accent.
Limited insight.

...Its limit being my sight.
She says “you are in on it”
how could I not be?

Blindly, lightly, i touch her milkless nipples and this squirmy mess in my hands is trying to free some of the animals. And meowing responses to police and street triage. Twisting and turning, resisting my attempts to engage.
She is grappling with trays of animals and trying to free them.

Here on her underside I feel an alignment of factors, environmental and institutional, coming together. Colliding in her navel; impoverishing her.
How can the centre be the fade out zone?
In vague language she keeps repeating ‘simultaneous’ as I press this point on her anatomy, again and again.
As if everything were happening at once, and I press and press and press.
She says that I know the answers to ‘why?’

Gone.