last night you found a choir, simple melody morphing like tides, breathing out of the box fan, decided not to unplug///
wake up with copper powder smeared over your face and fingers—ornamental exoskeleton and soft underbelly—with your two lungs twisted out of rotation, the right filled with soft pebbles and cold low-lying fog, the left with slow-roasted oranges and dying sun off the water///
cough it all up in the morning, until you can carry everything in the bowl of your hands. the new empty space might feel like the caramelized smoke from the last remains of the campfire, settling into all the cavities of the spirit, the sudden thrumming as brain and body are jarred from their stations, the familiar echo of sirens scattering across frayed nerves, tapping fingers on the base of the skull, or the warm static washing across skin during the easy unfolding of a silence, or the pink ringing in your bones, left over from when you noticed the electric-sun-lit-catch-and-release-of-wind-sky-and-green above you was hot with intention and wanted to weave it then and there through your ribs, or maybe it will be like nothing at all, and you can take those jettisoned fruits of your body, walk to the nearest river, and toss them in one by one, see if any will skip.
released September 28, 2019
Text by Amber Bouchard
electronics- Sam Mullany
drums & electronics- Will Mullany
mixed by Sam