The abattoir from Orphnē by maud the moth

Hold me tightly, curse my elusive grip.
Once I said yes lightly, now you clench my broken reins.

A car park ballroom.
A forested abattoir.
A snapped new shoe strap.
A silent wife.

“And how afraid we were, when we were small, of Mormo:
She had huge ears on her head,
Walked about on four feet,
And was always changing faces.
But when you mounted your husband’s bed. You forgot all about those things,
All you heard from your mother”
– Erinna, “The Distaff” ( IV B.C.) -


Like wet flour I will knead you.
And your bowl will brim with tears.
By my hand unholy vessel, what is broken never heals.

Before the dawn you’ll bear my name.
My fingerprints like strings of pearls.
Your nacre flows below my blade.
Sediments of pain.

Like wet flour I will knead you,
WOE.
Like wet flour I will knead you,
WOE.
Like wet flour I will knead you,
WOE.

• Alternative
• avant-garde
• ethereal wave
• singer-songwriter
• Edinburgh