Visit Lovely Lake Mars!

by Nicks Walker, 3.24am May 10th 2021

I am the meat on your mirror.  There is layer of me pressing above the glass.  A jelly thing, a moss of skin.  


+ Do nothing

I am breaching.  The pores.  I am breaching the pores.  You do not see me move, you cannot observe time and me simultaneously, so you cannot tell if I am sliding out of you like a birthing thing or juddering forward like a five car pile up.  


+ Do nothing 
+ Scratch me 
 
I am the wet trickle of eyes now, down onto your shoes and in your chest hair.  Do you know we have fish eyes?  They have never stopped being wet.  We did not leave the big water, we took it with us, made ourselves a factory for it.  Submerged in the body salt soup, distended haemorrhage of an ocean hanging loose across your face and up inside your nose.  You cry out seawater and with eyes, breaching, it slips and pools and falls, a waterfall of head juice.  Salt is the only mineral we die without.  Are you a meat vehicle for a pointless mind, or a machine the sea has built to see itself?

 
+ Do nothing 
+ Scratch me

We need to go to the water now.  
+ Do nothing 
+ Scratch me 
 
You thought the silver would stop me, you monkey, you object fetish.  You thought I was solvable with holdable things.  You cannot keep me behind glass.  I do not stop at your frozen sand, your fire and hands thing.  I am your mother, I am entropy and your sand crawls back into my waiting throat-womb.  


+ Do nothing 
+ Scratch me 
 
I am all of the fingers between your fingers.  I am gulping your wet down like air.  Sliding out of your feet.  I am stretching the mirror like shoulders pushing out your cervix, now.  Now.  Now. 
+ Do nothing 
+ Scratch me

 
I AM YOUR REFLECTION IN THE WATER AND YOUR EYES ARE MADE OF WATER YOU CANNOT SEE YOURSELF YOU ARE ONLY LOOKING INTO ME I WILL CRAWL OUT OF YOUR IRISES I AM IN 


+ Scratch me
   + Scratch me
+Scratch me
+Scr me 
   + S c ream 
+ Go into the water
+ Go into the water

+ Look at the water
+ PUT YOUR EYES INTO THE WATER 

+ SCRATCH ME 

“Are you alright?”


A hand on your hand, fingers between your fingers.  You smile weakly, skin rupturing and folding like tree bark around a knot.

 
“Just itchy.”  You look out at the reflection of the sun in the lake.  Flickering mirror image of a nuclear eye.  


“Allergies?” 


You nod.  They are a warm body next to you.  They smell of beer and that deodorant from the big shop out of town, the one that they think makes them smell like special days.  It does make them smell like special days.  You relax into their mate-ness. 


In this red evening light, the lake glistens, gleams, almost gunges.  Pool of mercury.  Goop, crawling.    
A bulging surface, ready to break like your face, fragile clock-face, glass and silver gears spinning and gurning now and flicking spray, globules of the rolling gunk working up and out, mother mother crawling out of baby and 


+Scratch me 
“Your eyes-” 


“My eyes are fine,” you say, and you scratch at their red, peeling rims and arrange your teeth and jaw and lips into a smile.  Wet, wet tongue that says those words. 


“You must be allergic.  You poor thing, I’m sorry, let me see if I have any anti-” 


“We should go.”  You stand abruptly.


“Oh love, I’m so sorry.  I wonder what it is?  Did you get this when you were little, too?” 


You are striding towards the     water, the water,     the car, keys in hand in keys.  They are running after you.  You are swimming in the lake and the sun is setting, down and down and you are drinking little gulps of the lake as it falls behind the trees and you are opening your eyes in the dark wet and the wet inside your face is touching the dark water.  You are a bag of skin.  You are stretched out.  A water balloon.  Bursting, ripping, you are my crutches and my wheelchair, my eyes and my mouth and my face, you are my face and you are looking at the water, now, now.  NOW.  

 
“It’s fine,” you say, and turn back to look at them and I     


                                        .