Thudding raindrops beat
whoozy eccentric tattoos
Broken baritones croak
growling thunder rumbles

loose as unctuous
scrumptious bronchial catarrh—
can lightning do nothing
except flash and strike?

The Wreckoning

Half a month’s worth in one just night: flash torrent chaos rains, freefall-bomber hits the skids…rainy, rainy skies, up since just gone three, realigning smooth riversides, knee deep down in autumn sludge

What a difference a day can make. Summer slams its door shut. Batten up and hunker down. Get the winter brain in gear. How lucky are you feeling?

Queasy feelings rattle me, the lift abruptly shudders , time to light a candle up. Something is lodged down deep, I dare not cough it up, spit it out.

I fear the consequences of seeing my black soul writhing before me on the cruel floor. The witching hour comes. The anthracite dog will not go out in this—

Why should anyone in their right mind? Outside we dry some fire sticks, make day light, watch the last bee suckle, have one last puff on the trumpet, set the drapes on overtime, Mr Hands! We sail for Costa Teabag

In sanitised thatch cottages sad eyed sod busters float before my Jolson eyes, some optimists wave resigned white hankies from upstairs windows, the others stare blank pure dread and sweep past on the ruthless ebb

Night Storm

purple rain gestures
porous chorus eyes sweep seas
litmus paper pores
indigo collides with crimson
hollow bronchial catarrh
sounds of rumbling baritone
lightning flashes lightning strikes
never in the same place once

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