A tepid nose pressed on the glass, the fishtanks' in which marbled golds and putrice swim surrounding the tossed gold coins in whirlwind movements; I liken myself, akin to those fish: with their glassy eyes and ink pot irises that would drown your soulless pen and ink nibs whole. Ten hands stuck to the bottom, each with a ring upon their wavering fingers, questioning their worth at the nether edge of an elder soup; where time sticks like oil to fire, and all wretched earth and soil are turned to silt in the silicone jaws... O amphibious beings, take unto yourselves the obligation! At the end of this day I am your Master, where the flowers and the fats in your first name are washed a away. We become the ebony husks of someone else: someone else’s hand I lost to your kind long ago, one I cannot reach for the stench in my hair thick, within its amorphous malodour. O lungs of mine, you swell with analgesics, the salted water, of a long forgotten dream.
© Eve Redwater 2012