Perish the floorboards that overhead creak, blast those heavenly strangers that audaciously speak, expounding crass mouthfuls of weak forked tongued chic, while outside your window a thunder rumbles, and inside your stomach grumbles sleep, when blank lassitude replaces pernicious scorn. Soon the rain rushes and winds lash, dreamscapes fall urgently, sudden, thick, vast. Cool insurgent breezes cut through stuffed draught worn halls. Yet above they just keep chuntering and you must strain to know what’s happening and get to not worry too much about what a load of shite that is. This is not the point of this exercise it is more to do with keeping your fingers moving and the juices flowing after this prolonged enforced lay off so never mind if it smacks of Torrance in the Overhang and it does not scan. You are not obliged to show it to this world of strangers and avatars who haunt the pestilent ether. Caught deep in mid breath came a loud crash, ‘What is that bloody awful noise downstairs?’ Okay just get it down and to hell with the editing and punctuation, wait till the cows come home to roost. Your balls are hurting. Go out for a walk in the tropical suburban garden. Take a nocturnal piss on the ugly laurel by the crimson front door for old times sake. It will soon be dispersed by a cloudburst. Hailstones will pepper the dawn this time round. Get up for a drink and washed your ears when it arrives. Keep it going till light brings scant relief. Open the little window wider. Turn the heating down a notch.
Tomorrow visitors are legalised.