by Morgan Melhuish Jeremy Bishop The smog holds everything in place. Listless winds barely disturb thick banks of cumuli, pendulous and scum-grey in the gritty sky. A tang of electricity still buzzes in the air from last night when dancing, darting lightning struck at the sea. I love how the burst-battery taste mingles with salt. I love the shore with its percussive waves, how we have shocked those sluggish oceans from cardiac arrest. Today a dirty tidemark of spume and stink