a fiction
waiting
stickily waiting
rinse and repeat
all is forgiven at the roar of the tumbling
and we rejoice in the thrilling generosity
of the brand new boundless downpour
and then again
we wait
it will be back but
on which tomorrow?
here I am picking over my haunting
the haunting of a time when
a endless lonesome dry
was broken by a long slow cooling magic
I thought I had slid off the human cycle
of want and not want and then want again
that old rinse and repeat
she begged my differ
she filled my want
she climbed my tree
and shook my branches
through the dry as we wait for the rainshowers
bathroomshowers must suffice
three times a day sometimes
bless the skin
at first the new season arrives intermittently
teasing and testing and
we rehearse our monsoon lines and steps
and flirt with the operatic clouds that come a-billowing
and yet may not deliver
then the delight to be woken in the wee hours
by the sound of rain
and to rise up to start the day with
petrichor swirled into the balcony coffee
trapped in a small room
making talk small and long
making sweat and blending it
making love as it pours
we rejoice in the thrilling generosity
and are glad to be under cover
we are at the place where
there is nowhere else to be
the rain allows us our buildings and our cars
is amused by our raincoats
and challenges our umbrellas
sometimes it takes the form of a gaoler
locking us in where we are
fierce and unforgiving
like you’re on the wrong side of the Old Testament
and then those beautiful
sprinkles of pinprick-tiny raindrops for hours and hours
one long pointillist mist
that draws out the song in us
the songs surely should tell us the parts that they don’t specifically mention
but then the songs have the same half life as our good (bad?) selves
lyrics metaphorificate crying and loneliness
and frequently add walking
because the rain also symbolises
that which we cannot but must accept
so if it’s inevitable
blue eyes
let’s go out and get
drenched
and in steady falling rain
relive our greatest tragedies
dial up old radio songs
strap on the headphones and howl
the tease of whipping winds
and the suddenness of the dark
our optimism and pessimism run on rails
that the rain ignores and just rides over
with an insistence of moisture
subdivided into unsharp bullets
the deliberate
(intentional? painstaking? methodical?)
disintegration of
yet another misguided erotic dialogue
at least it presents as a dialogue
it tastes and smells like a dialogue
we can crowbar it into the shape of a dialogue
and we can squint at it to make it look like a dialogue
but it becomes increasingly clear that there are two
or more
or even more
misinterpreted and poorly grasped monologues
stagnating in puddles in the two spots
where we forget that we should
fix
those leaks
and the painfully slow end
as later
we wander through
air like soup
and the smell of damp to go with the dust
because day after day
the corridors are dirty with mud
the stairs are made dangerous by constant trickles
the resentments grow at each incident
and we are ready for the dry again
this narrator is unreliable
this narrator is unworthy
this narrator is undaunted
this narrator tries so hard each time
this narrator is part of the problem
this narrator is not dissolving into solution
this narrator is feeling damp and soggy
and here we are
in the middle of the day
talking to ourselves
this narrator is still waiting
and will still beg for the rain
rinse and repeat
and then again
we wait
it will be back but
on which tomorrow?
