Tucked up in the underground,
it’s rich in sweaty soil,
it’s hot beneath the rafters
of the state and sky.

I rest down in the tunnels
and sewers pipes alike,
gathering short-haired friends
on which to lay.

I've learned to call their names,
scratchy, sticky, skin-lined paw —
and they do not notice
when I slip in the night.

My warmth keeps them eager
to pile up upon me and trail behind,
as I tread through the day.

Like crumbs I'm moving onwards,
drifting thoughts with ironed tails —
onto mercy onto rest,
prey, march, prey —

It's very minimal

I embraced it

\

I think it was two weeks ago

Well yeah, it’s quite warm right now

Zuckerberg, actually

Like we've got apple tv

Our train carriage went over a bump,
and it was then that I noticed
a hundred bodies
all sway left to right.
A short dance.

And I said I don't care, I'm gonna have a cigarette

Things just stack and stack and stack

Five o clock

The concrete building next door changes colour when it rains, like the pavement

You were one of those people

Oh that’s good

Alight ok, let’s go boys

I wouldn’t stitch the pocket to the skirt

Sway your hips when you walk

The place stunk of death

I’ll never go back

I was listening to this podcast discuss the pitfalls of luxury fashion and its impact on ‘increasingly
younger consumers’. I looked down at my phone, opened Facebook, and an article popped up announcing the US
Government's recent title change of the now called ‘Department of War’. What do you say?

This city is dust.

As she whinges about the cost of living

Sydeny Sweeny’s American Eagle ad sparks outrage

I’d like to run down that pavement. Run outside,
and run down,
out,
out from my building,
tread fast and run.

I’d pass the traffic lights, keep going.
Past the urine-stained backstreets,

the underpass.

I’d run,
I’d run,
I’d run underneath the subway,

the rustle of the rails,
run against the coattails and heel taps,
out from the wind tunnels and shop cries,

I’d rustle,
rustle up onto the highway, and laugh across the lanes,
ignoring all the car horns,
and run.

I’d confuse them in my wandering,
running,
stumbling off the side,
down the gutter,
down the planted forest,
laughing,
cackling to the heavens,

looking up, and when I’d cry up,
up, they would hear me,

in my running,
wrestle through the pines.
Against the dirt, and rolling,
I’d roll and run and rustle,
and there, finally, I’d rest.

Sink into my slowly,
let it soften out, I’d dance and
caw out for the others,
and there we’d
gather,

we’d burrow, we’d
let.

ARIXCHANGE

Amy Baillie Isabella Rose Cort

Amy Baillie

Isabella Rose Cort