a fiction


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 


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 


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?