Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a

Amelia wore a yellow slicker raincoat,
rain or shine, Every day without fail
And her smile was almost as bright as that
But not quite.

Amelia took off the raincoat in the seventh grade, when
a boy said she looked like a duckling,
"the ugly duckling". They laughed, but her?
Not quite.

Tenth grade rolls around. The raincoat is
collecting dust in the very back of a closet filled to the brim
with clothes no one could say were an ugly duckling's feathers.
First day of school, and it begins to rain. Pour, even.
But not quite.

Amelia is in a rush. She grabs the first raincoat she sees,
the ugly duckling yellow slicker. She
begins to cry, and her tears are almost
blending in with the rain.
But not quite.

with no other choice, she wears her feathers.
she expects laughter, and pointed fingers
but she is met with the same smiles as
she always was.
"Cute raincoat, Amelia!"
And she begins to smile, almost as wide as she did
when she was an innocent duckling.
But not quite.

For Amelia, who found her wings
in an old yellow slicker raincoat,
smiled wider.

Chapter one:

  The strange entanglement of the sun, twisted in kooky bedlam with The Great King Moon in winter.

Have you ever looked down at yr feet on the long walk home & wondered if you’re really moving forward any more or if all your really doing is just moving the ground? Don’t answer that, its a rhetorical question. Of course you have. We all have. You think you’re moving in the right direction, following the north star or the compass in your brain or maybe just your nose or your thumb and fore finger. You  believe that you’re gonna make it somewhere, you have to believe. What else is there. The truth is, you’re going nowhere, we are all going nowhere, we just spin on the slanted axis & never really go anywhere. We have been conditioned to believe that this is the way the world works but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t, you gotta buck up, **** up or ******* ‘*** let me tell you, yr ‘dreams’ mean nothing to anybody ‘*** living, real living is not connected to REM. That’s all just more ******* you’re gonna have to put up with people trying to sell you. Lick the boot, get over the barrel & bite down on your watch strap. That’s all there is to it. The mind is a magnet. If you find yourself staring in to the abyss: Jump right in. Swan dive. Hold your breath & wait. Everything will be OK. I promise you.

I’m writing, ah writing! Writing this worthless piece of *****// manuscript of means for you. For me, for the future, for love, for lust, for hatred of all things hating, for your mother & farther, for my friends, my beautiful angelic, clinically insane friends, for time, for the soles of my shoes with hundreds of miles under their laces, for your fat greedy pockets, for the moon, for the sun to spit on, for the wind to taunt, as he does like the great cowardly, perverted invisible fiend that he is, for nothing, for not quite everything, for your aching lovers, for your broken hearts, for the worlds water, may you always be clean & run free, for the great biblical liars, for the sorrowful wonder of the great homeless & may all their wants come to be wanted, for *******, for fumbling, for the vast oaken heavy doors on bars that keep us safe from the  horrors outside, for guilt, for sugar-blue smoke, for all the kids sitting in **** stained squat houses with half a horse embedded in their face, for my schools that gave up on a bored child, for warmth & fire & woollen clothing, for Paris where I can fulfil my great dream of becoming a sullen cliché, for the gravel-mounted marching marvel, may you never lose your way, for the Parthenon, for Aubergine, for The Firefly, the swan, bleeding,for growing up, for all the music makers,all people should play all instruments to any degree(rather than just, age & shrivel), for Howl for Carl Solomon, for every down & out that ever clawed his way up the street & through the yellow door, for all the animals that gave their lives to keep me fat & red faced, for Christ sake, for the invisible man in the sky, causing all war & so much death-thank you, for the wild west, for Bert & John, for the great literary mastodon to look down his reset nose at & ask me why. Why?

The way that old dial telephones look & feel. The questions that need no answers. Feeling down, down & out, upside down & inside out,upside in & downside out on the pavement at five am. Waking up in unknown beds & crawling down drain pipes. Getting lost in a place you have lived your whole life. Being in the woods simply to be in the woods. Drinking coffee even though you hate the taste. Never telling a stranger the truth. Living under a false name. Drinking yourself to death in the dark lonely-crowded corners of ***** stained wood floor warehouse floors. Feeling solid-sterling-gold for feeling so terribly horrifically half-corpse-like the only way you can really feel is completely statuesquely angelically magnificent and the only way is down(you really have no idea how far I fell that morning) , Only going out when it rains. Only going out in the dark. Staying up all night dreaming and sleeping all day. Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember to remember to be forgetful. Understanding that you and no one else understands nothing but eat-drink-sleep-****-death. Smoking until yr tongue bleeds and yr eyes burn like that fire in the sky in the fearful month of June. Wishing you knew how to tie a noose & writing ”suicide” on yr calender on a day you have no planned engagements. Shooting to the moon & back in the bee-bop-bo-bo-batter-batter-chitter-chatter like jazz on the neon streets of the earths mother. Crawling in to a stone cold bed after walking for six days & feeling bored & lonely again in ten minutes.

That’s why, I’m glad you asked. If I’m going out, then I’m out going with some steeze in a cloud of smoke, yr wife & I’m not taking you with me.

For all these things & more is the reason I write. To write for the sake of writing. For, some people write, just to write & they are truly the the lost meaning of it all.

Automatic travel rambles to plug up the holes in yr lonesome pockets. Blues.

Chapter two:  

Creeping moss-stick under-flowering the useless but grateful Tuesday poet, Jim Gravestone Sr.

The ghost of the monorail, living only in upturned memory sits slow & smooth/low against the Sunday evening rapture. You gotta know which way is down. Down. The dew on the grass & the creamy-green residue of the night before is just too close to a real drama. Absolute dahma. Down in the cold rising damp & the stain on your shirt.

He sits , sits like you, like me & like old Tom Mooney the prison king. If you ever saw such a sad sight as he, I do believe you would roll out your tongue on the pavement right there & then & wait for the road sweeper & all his secret, early morning charms & the great wolf man, pork chop sideburns (lupine dreams)to clean you up & clean you out. I do declare!

For he knows-for he has seen. Seen the sun rise from his pearly throne up on the dark side of the moon, the very face of Bowie, right there in the eye socket. He sees all. You can live your life, & you do, & you should, but he, O’ he, he has really been there & where & back again. You carry on with your sleepy routine of mule-back coffee office doom death jobs(you sleepy Bohemian, you)  & in you spare time trying to keep your nose from filling up with water & your private parts entwined with somebody else’s most private of parts, & on the side lines of you spare time you can deal with your family & all the friends that you’re sick of but hold on to, only for the fear of being left alone in the dark with nothing but all of the above. Then again you always have your studies(STDS)all of the ologies, of course.

Sleepology, cocaineology,rainolgy, sunology, lonleyology, depressionology, suicideology, talkology,empypocketsology, meaninglessology, masterbationology, coutntingyourmoneyinpintsology,walkology, onenightstandology, jumpthetaxiology, begology, borrowology, stealology,feelology, upallnightology, sleepalldayology, Xology, ologyology, etcology etc…ology etc.

Just find something you can care for ‘*** [insert atheist god/idol] knows that nobody is going to do your caring for you, even I they do in fact care for you.

I have been beginning to notice,that I(and I may not be alone)

always look at the past through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now ever seems to be joyous or gay or splendiferous until it is a past memory.

A cobweb. A rafter. A leaf on the ground. …I guess.

         Chapter three:

I know you know it but people that you don’t know, really are a funny, funny thing…

I stand outside the rain & watch the people passing by; really the most depressing experience of my ever increasing years. Un-jolly fat men with whiskey-nose & scuffle-feet stanzas of gibberish, talking gibberish & gibberish being their inner most self. Pre-war women with Arctic-blue hair, faces melting, everything pointing down, shuffle. Kids pushing prams full of ugly babies towards a house of who-gives-a-**** & ******* & I’m-gonna-die-here and what of it. Is there really no more to life. Listen to the top 40 on the radio, clueless, oblivious. Cogs. All cogs. Military troglodytes following them back in a dead eyed daze, dreaming of killing in the real and virtual. No you may not have a cigarette. Leave me alone, please. Let me listen to my watch ticking in peace & at least pretend that you don’t exist.

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’

including..

Mercury,

hydrogen hydroxide,

fountain pens,

the lost dates of calenders,

various small woodland animals,

including…

Voles,

rabbits & field mice.

Other such things as…

Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)

feelings of remorse and regret,

the stolen trinkets of past lovers,

and of course,

white blood cells,

pesticides,

and the second hand

from a 1956 ’Hamilton Rail road’ pocket watch.

E.L August 7th

           Chapter four:

Last night, last night was the last night it was the night last

Picasso raincoat. Imagelessness. Bottomlessness. I lost my umbrella & my Holden Caulfield head-wear, again. I was skipping on a rain cloud, corduroy boy and scarecrow girl, reunited in a soft entanglement sticky in the senses. Hoof! The only way is up when you walk down these stairs, snakes and blisters, but you’ll sweat it all out in babble cream conversation and love in your eyes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me something to prop my chin up in this brown tunnel. Your name it is something I cant care to remember but of course I never really had a name of my own either, so we shall be the great wonder of the nameless masses, the ones born to no name and never wanted one anyway. A name is nothing but a label, a calling card, call me anything, call me king Charles II just as long as you do call me, the sound of a voice, your voice, any voice reeling off a comprised anagram of the alphabet is enough to get my short attentive ears to perk up and twist my noggin backwards towards the direction of my inbuilt gypsy sonar. So anyway, I was going to talk about something, something great… but now its gone and all I have is bloodshot eyes and sweaty liars palms to prove to the world that I had an idea once, I swear I did.

Here’s an idea for you to dig you heels into:

The world keeps making mistakes, everybody makes mistakes, its natural, nothing to fear, it happens all day every day. BUT, with every mistake we make, we then proceed to learn from that mistake, so.. stay with me here… Once the world, the whole world meaning everyone in it, has made every mistake they can make and of course and one would hope of course, that they have also learned from all of these mistakes; once this has happened, there will be no more mistakes to make, right? Therefore leaving the world perfect as a whole, no mistakes to make, learnt their lessons on every lesson and we can all go on with living a perfect existence, yes?…

No.

I’ve really thought long and hard about it -could never happen, people are not perfect, they never will be, if they were I wouldn’t want to know any of them, and the world, well the world is an imperfect place, and the same rule applies.

But let me hit you with another bit of knowledge to round things off and maybe put a positive spin on things. Hoist ye marrow-thumbs around this;

One of the many few early times that my legs forgot how to use them selves, I was sitting on the pavement, trying for one to reattach these two now useless appendages stuck like butter to my lower torso, but foremost trying to light a cigarette with my useless cold hands and equally useless matches, fearful of the sneaky clear coward, invisible old Mr wind, when a kindly stranger, half my size, red my hair, opposite my *** and now opposite my broken legs appeared like a person will appear when you mind is in other minds, a smile, a sympathetic look and two working hands to fire up the stick in my mouth. I said my thanks, babbled about babble and the generation of gibberish and im sure many other things inconceivable to the sober ear of a dame such as she, the bringer of flame and enlightenment, not of the smoke but of the simple mind, an idea is what she left with me and it never left. She stopped my rambling typewriter of a tongue and said ‘shush’ she held my head in her hands, looked at me straight,so I thought she might be death or god or that I was passing out,she all green eyed and like the woods, looked at my eyes like they were tethered together and dropped the bomb on me, she said ”if you are looking at the moon, then everything is alright” kissed my warm on frozen forehead and was gone into the night, never to be seen again.

That’s all the advice you will ever need, & so ll I will leave you with.

You never left a name, but I never wanted one anyway.

Midnight moment

beautiful rags

midnight joy.


Nevermind your little light,

set apart your golden dreams

that offen break,

& come to play.


Chapter five: There are things I want to write but I am not going to write them.

The End.

‘Stay gold, Pony Boy’

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried

I think of You and I see the yellow
Of a raincoat, keeping me dry and warm
You’re good at that, wrapping around me tightly
Your arms like the weathered belt
Hands knotted across my stomach
And the rain-soaked hood
Lightly lapping at my cheek
Not unlike your kiss
The drawstrings tumble down
Like Your hair across my chest
But unlike the raincoat
Which will inevitably, ironically
Soak me when I go to take it off
You will always be my shelter
I could never hang You up.

It poured a heavenly rain today
The roads washed anew
Little streams danced and slid down the alleys to the music rains play

The Gulmohar petals in orange red hues
Lay strewn on the pavement grey
Perched atop the green leaves
Glorious they looked in the warm sun rays

A walk in the evening mellowed rains
The tiny raindrops fell gently upon my face And raincoat peach
Luminous  under the street lamps
Silvery Rain-beams dance

Little yellow raincoat,
Why do you hide?
Is it better there where you reside?
When questions of you arise,
Are there no rainbows for ever after?
Stories to be told,
Directly from your pasture.
Congratulations of you in silence,
As you listen to their praise.
In depth to your past story,
A horrid in many ways.
So come back little raincoat,
To the spotlight once more.
There is still so much to do,
Like never before.

The tiny marks in our hands
Aren't they beautiful?
Some crossed, some uncovered,
Some, simply
Wonderful.
And I am writing this poem for those wonderful times,
When this world was you and I,
When I was 5 and you were wet,
I found you drenched under a little shed,
The little paws and the big eyes,
Licked my face
And my heart was set,
I carried you under a raincoat,
And got my boots squeaked and torn,
And regardless, my mom took you for a monster
With ugly teeth and horn.

Years passed, and i grew up
From a boy to a man,
Couldn't take care of you, too busy,
With my dreams and my plan,

And one day i came back from another country,
And saw you no more,
For, there lied only the little raincoat,
That you and i once wore.

My voice echoes with longing
Lost, searching for protection
I wear my raincoat most days
just incase the sky decides to open
and I am left below, out in the rain
searching for shelter in all the
wrong doorways

Today, no yesterday
you purchased a raincoat
to drench you in grey,
way too expensive
but worth it, about right
if you hand over enough.

They will see you ride,
maiden on a bike
through the torrent in your new
good-on-the-eyes garment,
with just the slightest hint
of merry pink lining.

In bed, I lay
upon my cushioned existence I stay
but outside the world's at play
birds swimming in the sky
and trees that gently sway
dancing the day away
and I continue to lie
the distant sounds
of yawning grounds
two parched lips
as the Earth does rip
let the rain come
so we may take a sip
heavens nectar
falls upon a discarded deckchair
striped like candy cane
blotched with the rain
scattered upon sandy dunes
could this be a monsoon
ironically late
but still worth the wait
paid patience admission at the gate
one ticket to wet wet wet
this is what patience gets
just need a raincoat
so I can appear in the matrix
how can you hate this
a neopolitan sky
dripping with colour
if I were a scholar
I could espouse on its many virtues
instead, I turn up my collar
and tip my hat
a little milk won't hurt you
an umbrella swung round a lamppost
and now I'm Gene Kelly
still wearing a raincoat
but dancing
romancing the moonlight
for night has snuck in the back door
like an absent teenager
but this too shall pass
soon the dunes turn to grass
and I too return to task
a new day
at play.

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

Each evening she got
off the bus and crossed

the forecourt of the gas
station where you worked

wearing her knee length
raincoat and made her way

into the small shop inside
and you stood there open

mouthed gazing at her hot
beauty at her black hair and

dark eyes and she said I want
20 of those cigarettes and

she pointed with her thin
finger and red nail to cigarettes

behind you and you turned
around and took down the

cigarettes pack and put them
on the counter and she took

coins out of her black purse
and placed them one by one

on the counter top and said
There that’s just right and then

off she went no more words
just a wiggle of her *** and you

watched her go out of the door
and along by the forecourt of

the gas station and you sighed
and sniffed the air to capture her

perfume and held on to the sight
of her and placed it in your memory

like some rich guy putting some
precious gem in his vault and you

would sense that memory of her
wiggling *** like some fresh fish caught.

Another Version

Hartley Forde

You can’t see the wind,
But that old mango tree,
Outside my window,
tell me it’s there..
.
I never travel with a raincoat,
Even though I hate getting wet,
Then here comes the aches and pain
And I started to wonder,
was it because I got a little insane..
I thought that I could
Have run faster than it pours
I haven’t heard of
any aircraft that outrun  a jet plane yet,
But, not so anymore,
I never leave my coat and cane,
When I am on a stool,

Oh dear, what has happened to me?
Am I aging? I am not young anymore,
Nor grey, nor old: for age is just a number,
But when the toil of the day
Merges with the aches and pain
With sighing sounds I start to wonder:

I still dance the night away, with my social tunes,
And waltz across the floor to all-time favorite of Strauss
See how I step back in time with the reggae beat,
Lighter than a feather on my feet,

Smiling, with my pearly teeth from ear to ear:
Life just isn’t fear: because age is just a number
That’s when the rubs and oil granny left me:
Come alive again in the neck of time,
to soothe the pain of my aching joints
I smile once again and said
“Oh dear, what do they say again,

Age is just a number and life begins at forty,
Because, I am just starting to be naughty:
Downhill !

written by:
Hartley Forde

'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -
Boom. It's the awful raincoat
making me look like a selfdefeated self-murdering imaginary gangster, an idiot in a rueful coat, how can they understand my damp packs - my mud packs -
„Look John, a hitchhiker'
„He looks like he's got a gun underneath that I. R. A. coat'
'Look Fred, that man by the road' „Some sexfiend got in print in 1938 in *** Magazine' –
„You found his blue corpse in a greenshade edition, with axe blots'

Droplets tap the dusty windows
Tipping pleasure on the pane
Dribbles every time the wind blows
Prophesize a hurricane

Kisses linger on the backseat
Desperate to delight in more
Suffocated by the heat, but
When it rains, it starts to pour

Panic storm that quickly closes
Smashing waves upon the sand
Tension tearing up the roses
Stuttered poems, shaking hands

Though the pressure keeps you floating
And the ocean licks its shore
There's no way of sugarcoating
Once it rains, it has to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Let the plants hang onto youth
Sunday jazz, petrichor feeling
Hear it tripping on the roof
Smell it shifting all around you
Leaking through your drying veins
Leave your stagnant dragonfly blue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours
I'll blossom being yours

Downpour cleans the ***** traffic
Rippling madly down the drain
Paints the artist something graphic
While he's waiting for the train

Laughter echoes in the morning
Licking soil and clouds to raw
From the vision that's been dawning
Once you rain, it has to pour

Spitting bombshells pelt your raincoat
Tears in quiet pools of green
Holes inside your getaway boat
Water's sweet but can be mean

You've avoided all the warfare
But the stars rampage for more
Douse the thin comfort you still wear
Once it rains, it starts to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Give the plants a thirsty truth
Fairy lights and freedom feeling
Tunes of our torrential youth
Smell it changing all around you
Bursting through the shrivelled veins
Leave your crippled summertime hue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours,
I'll bloom so much being yours
We're a perfect storm, I guess
Fire has been stopped with less

When it rains it has to pour.

And you think
no one will know
to put change in this cup
because it is empty.

The rain hitting
the paper of it
doesn’t sound the same
as the clinking coins of yesterday.

A child skips across
the bridge, outrunning
her raincoat, ahead of mother,
does one and then another

double take because she
does not want her raincoat
anyway, wants to feel
water bead on skin,

she falls back and takes it
from mother’s outstretched hands
and tosses it to the folded ones
of the man.

She has one pound
to spend today, mother may
I?

No.

Mother, why?

You watch her little hands
ball into fists,
her eyes cloud with mist
that melts into the rain.

You watch mother open a door,
watch a wind tunnel batter
the chandelier ornaments,
they clink like wind chimes or coins.

The child safely inside,
mother’s eyes glare back,
fear without reason,
they shout
*I want that raincoat back.

You walked back
from the shops
through the Square
having shopped

for your mother
Helen beside you
helping to carry
the heavy bags

her doll Battered Betty
in her free hand
Helen dressed
in her dark blue raincoat

and hood
her thick lens spectacles
smeared by the light rain
her brown shoes

letting in water
you in your black raincoat
buttoned up to the neck
your black shoes

treading through puddles
you climbed the stairs
to your flat
on the fourth floor

and along the balcony
and went in
through the front door
and put the shopping bags

on the kitchen floor
you look like drowned rats
your mother said
best get out

of those wet coats
or you'll catch your deaths
and so you took off
the raincoats

and she gave you
a towel each
to dry off
in front

of the living room fire
Helen took off
her spectacles
and wiped them

on the hem
of her green flowered dress
I must look a mess
she said

the boys at school
call me Dracula's sister
they can say what they like
you said

to me you're my Maid Marian
to my Robin Hood
besides they couldn't
understand beauty

if it crept up
and pinch their bums
she laughed
and wiped

her frizzy
dark brown hair
on the white towel
you dried your hair

and face
and took in
her lost girl look
her spectacles

on the dinning room table
her hair
all over the place
her squinting eyes

I can take you
to the cinema
if you like
this afternoon

you said
there's a Cavalier
and Roundheads film on
with plenty of sword fights

I'll have to ask my mum
Helen said
I expect she'll say yes
especially if I'm going

with you
I think she'd trying
to me marry me off with you
even if we're only 8

she rubbed her hair quickly
then put the towel
on the chair with yours
Battered Betty her doll

was sitting on the floor
by the fire place
looking sorry for herself
Helen picked the doll up

in her arms
and you both looked
out the window
at the coal wharf

across the road
and the lorries
and horse drawn coal carts
coming and going

when we're married
Helen said
we can live in a castle
and look out

from the battlements
over the countryside
and I can have pretty girls
and you can train our sons

to be knights
yes
you said
and ride horses

and have sword fights
with the bad knights
and you showed her
the blue bladed sword

your old man made for you
at his workplace
and you showed her
your sword fighting skills  

afterwards she said
I best get home
or mum will wonder
where I've got to

ok
you said
let me know
if you can go

to the cinema
and tell your mum
I've got the money
for tickets

and an ice cream
ok
she said
and put on her

still damp raincoat
and kissed
your cheek wetly
and went out and off

along the balcony
and down the stairs
(the rain had stopped)
and you watched her go

through the Square
and down the *****
and out of sight
she your Maid Marian

you
her shining knight.

On the precipice of life and thereafter,

Stands a girl in yellow.



Clouds hang overhead,

Precariously close to exploding.

Much like the ones in her head;

And the voices that drove her here.



The voices she hears,

Day and night

Whisper slyly into her ear.

The voices, of the ones close and far.

Of those she once held dear.



Her soaked raincoat,

Her matted hair.

Droplets seeping through the fabric

And onto her shoulder bare.



She doesn’t hesitate

As she gets closer to the edge.

She leaps,

She flies.



The wind beneath her arms

The rains on her back

She’s finally free

Nothing to hold her back.



The raincoat flutters,

The yellow contrasts against the skies.

The one belonging she loved

And the only she left behind.



Oh if only she knew

That the world was her oyster

She wouldn’t have plunged, into

The darkness enveloping her.



But the girl in the raincoat

Like so many others

Fearful of being different;

Of being the yellow in the grey,

Leapt, and flew

And never looked back.

It’s raining on the South side and I’m outside
watching the flowers with a mouth wide open.
I was soaking up the rays just a few days ago
Now I’m asking myself where’d the sun go?

You stood on the corner in a yellow raincoat.
Weathering the storm and chasing rainbows.
Reclaim those colors, they suit you well.
Be true to yourself like Lulu Belle.

© Matthew Harlovic

This rain protector is white
but through it you'll see night
buttoned in three and one
nails and sharp pointers
for your hands
touch it and you'll feel
how it makes the rain appear
raincoat, raincoat, hello to you
will you give shade to these people
to not stain the wool they've worn
ha ha it is raining, madness is awake
ha ha it is falling, the psychotic within
hurt people, hurt the many
and laugh when they cry for pain
rain coat, rain rain coat
shade me from the rain

That paper was still me,
Today, I found i m still the same
I still hate rain
I still make paper boats.

Stupid rainfall of march
Stupid me, not carrying raincoat
But that paper was with me
I still love making paper boats

I m still the same, who don’t go restaurant alone
I m still the same, I love standing alone
But that paper was with me
I still love making paper boats

The rain stop! Finally i can go
I still love doing Ha..a: to feel the fogs and act as if i m smoking
I didnt throw the paper boat, i m still carrying it
That paper boat is still with me,

That paper,
That paper(the bill) of a coffee, I had yesterday.
I m still the same.

I fell short of matching all of the stars in space with the raindrops that made its way to Earth
Instead, I matched the stars in your eyes with the old pain's last breath and otherworldly love's first
The clouds have opened back up for business, booming thunder and zooming lightning
Somewhere there, the flash of your smile
The beat of your heart
The coolness of your waters that quench my thirst for you

It's natural to look at nature au naturale
Like Italians and Nigerians talking with hands as expressive as Deaf lovers relay romantic verses
Clear, nimble fingers that massage my soul within the cumulonimbus and nimbostratus
Fueling, flooding, fostering the gods' apparatus


You
The final form of unfinished paintings
Give birth to worthwhile wishful thinking
On my mind like taxes and teacher's lesson plans
A soft brush adjusting to the sky's new hues kissed like ones we've missed or knew
A masterpiece in pieces of Vishnu's vision for when he returns to look for Lakshmi
Hopefully time will not be Shiva to end this for me

How does it feel to be adored by Indra, when showers descend and drench the deepest ditches to force creation of drawbridges for those dire to cross your path again?

- Ifeanyi N. Okoro II © 2021

I met a strange lady with big big eyes,
Eyes so big like a dead frog dies,
Huge body with long brown hair,
Small umbrella which her body share...

I passed by her wearing ma rain coat,
Wearing ma orange + green shiny rain coat,
The rain coat which ma mother bought,
Hiding Money from ma father's short...

Let's go back to that rainy day,
When I and lady met on ma way,
She took her iPhone and clicked me a pic,
I posed her "peace" in the sound of click...

chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,

waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,

handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,

****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,

wooden soap, shortbread tires,  
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,

custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,

syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,

lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,

paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,

see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,

****** with a hole in it,
limp ****, pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,

one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,

meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,


this poem.

SON
1
making love to make our son I kiss her eyes as if God were inside her
2
my wife gave birth to my son on the floor of the house I built
3
he keeps me up all night ***** on my sleeve feverish cries for his mama until dawn lifts the heads of sunflowers
4
forget poetry going out jazzed our winter born boy needs his diaper changed her ancient *** me house cleaning singing lullabies like a dove
5
wild iris sway as he wades downstream singing
6
one God many stories holding you our son walking the blue earth breathing away the pain with friends
7
amazing the ups and downs my son chasing ducks Sunday eating together my friend’s cancer battle my wife’s selfless moan
8
playing with candlelight my son burnt his finger I warned him
9
shower eat help my son memorize the constellations pay bills watch my wife sleep
10
worried about rats eating wallboard in the dead of night I get up cover my son
11
my son refuses to wear a raincoat in the summer rain
12
in his 2nd grade family drawing: my son gladday ready his mom hugging him me head in the clouds our cat smiling
13
when rains make bitter grass green with laughter my son springs from the winter of his room with his shedding dog and new baseball yelling to his buddies “Wait up!”
14
late afternoon October sycamore shadows blowing elm my son his dog me
15
after days of acid rain the lost sun comes promising heaven sent birds and boys' voices
16
dragged my son up the mountain to watch the meteor shower sons and fathers everywhere I hope
17
my best friend’s grave she loved singing my son asleep now she’s waving grass wildflowers
18
in a vacant lot my freckled face boy floats at the happy end of his 99¢ kite


19
the science of mystical seeds restores your left brain faith in everyday miracles like noisy boys climbing the music of old trees
20
if we could come back her a book of flowers our son blades of grass me the invisible wind
21
6 to 6 deep plowing then wall-to-wall screaming kids a leaky roof the old tractor my darling one naked notebooks full of dreams
22
sling shot boys kick red and gold leaves swirling down the street of locked doors at the tired end of Indian summer
23
my sons reaches for falling snow trampling veined leaves with footloose laughter fearless of winter's night the certain bones
24
true I care more than my son when he plays baseball
25
the orange tree my son planted today will fruit after we’re long gone
26
the bus driver brags about her son’s first home run wishes she could have been there
27
putting flowers on mother’s grave my son holds my hand
28
when night rises I yearn when my son comes home I relax when you sing I surrender
29
WTC on t.v. my son’s face a cloud of tears
30
his father beat him black and blue her husband her their sons their sons
31
the eyes told me that I’d play catch with his sons long after he thought breathed
32
I argued with my son explained the rules he still did what he wanted
33
my boy swaggers down Main St. sure he'll live forever
34
in the back seat good boys brag about good girls what they wanna do with them
35
sleepless until my son comes home late then finally I turn over
and rest
36
the light in my son’s words the silent stones of his tears
37
quiet room unmade bed boys playing in the rain stupid poems awful silence

38
all the dawns evening storms lovely ******* good talk tickled son blow plumeria drift
39
when the stone of night rises I a thief of songs yearn for the music of a woman's light
40
I don't get it gone son lost lover sick friends joyless graying unkissed ******* blood
41
half her half me our son didn't know where to go when she moved out
42
when I'm memory my son might think of me when he's gone I'm only a poem or two
43
bombs hunger lacklove prodigal son abandoned fields come down God get back to work

I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.
 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.

Ha! and I had hopes
for a better ending.

Placing my hand on the window pane, I felt it knocking
outside, as the rain ****** buckets and washed my car.
Every few seconds, the sky was talking,
but I would never let it in.

I stepped down into a dour acceptance
and bought a moderately-priced raincoat.
The spitting sky would never cease
And I began to imagine which items I owned could float.

I wished I chose swimming lessons over piano,
but at least because of it I had one.
I figured it might become a useful raft
if indeed no one ever again sees the sun.

How much water can fit under the sky? I wondered,
and at what depth will my body finally rest?
I realized I hadn't the time to consider intangibles
or to issue to God any vague, indirect requests.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, just stop!
There was a moat between houses now,
with pets and telephone poles and trees as islands.
The chill of cataclysm began to freeze my brow.

Later on my roof wearing my raincoat I daydreamed
about the things I loved underneath the silvery-grey.
I waved to my neighbor and he sadly waved back,
and I held up my glass of wine and watched the world wash away.

First winter rain--
even the monkey
    seems to want a raincoat.

The daily hot humid
No sweat forehead
All the news her wetness
She was way ahead
I Love Thee rain, sweat, prayers, tears me

The daily routine sauna crib
Rain-She cub selfie
He gets rain-shine all scrubbed
Looked more like a hub after
ten years please comment

The dove soap rainwater scent
washing her eyes watching his
eyes depths body lengths
romancing

And her eyes could devour you
All wet long curled up lashes
The ancient times of their
hot flashes

The rise of the Stock market
How mad she gets throws her
Rain and shine dishes

Heavy rain coming down
Was it a big crash

Or was she feeling the damp wet cloth
the wet moment Man of the Cloth
To her ((Rain Depth))
Or loving the darkness
Rain prayers  Gothic
The umbrella she was swinging
And licking the drops
Going to the side to his
French side
Like a drenching ballerina
Wet puddles wetness in her flats

How his lips were on her deep
the depth of the well seeing
black cats
Was it all his recollection
to tell
Rain is a good thing
The moment set in like a hot
humid fling
with rain tears of crying

Thinking back at their best years
How he tasted the depths of her
mind
The rain kept pouring she was kept
inside wanting
She was the (Kept Women)
Was her time lady with the red dress
Out the red door with her
umbrella and her toxic perfume
He was intoxicated by her smells
drips and drops

No time was their polka dots
Raindrops falling on her head
Th drenching rain combined in
her illusional dream
bed
He was inside cooking his boiled
*** of spring water

The outside was no rain of her depth
the deepness leading her to
no sense of order
The exotically cool rain dancing
Like a Tech the screen was
flooding his search he needed his
food order those
Ramen noodles oodles and
more puddles
Going over her moist legs of hurdles
The rain to high depths of the
treasure of her
map graphs
Really high rains of colorful lady
graphics
City Rain has the
highest love traffic

The butterscotch candy
The Show Grease poodle skirt
raining cats and dogs

Mr. Worth, She was born with it Ms. Loreal
Her braided ringlet hair how he raided her
She swam right in like a loving birth guided her

Like the wrath hail to Mary quite
the contrary the  higher hopes to
the monastery
To her depth of the airplane,
rained on berries

The apps or eps what episodes
to lead her Ms. Sherry
The rain became a new birth
The Czechs with their raincoat
and checkbooks
Those rain  exotic teas take a trip
What we need to accept its
never a sunny day
in Philadelphia

The Park of the Recreation
The TV show on a rain divination
The tears of a powerful lady sing
the Blues Business

No is that so rain go away
No Please stay that's our
A piece of the drips
Don't cop out now the
wetness in her short rain dress
After the heat BUSINESS

Like the rain business
Without the rain no life
of flowers trees birds
All her wet dreams of words

It raining mad Hallelujah
Tall mean and wet drenched
syrup cake of ***
The rain with Graphic effects
I phone gets flooded and then
disconnects like banging
African drum the Safari
Designer rained away Tahari
Every drop is being inspected
Evaluated

Rain depths high to her legs
Sopping wet and her coffee
was somehow cloudy with his
words like rainstorm
How love can be neglected if you're at
the Stockmarket

What a heavy rain pour getting all your
money wet to the love heights
Of her rain depth  you could wake up it
was a rain dream seductively as its told
She got Iced like a cake
The rain was frozen
like the Queen_ war of the dozen

That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box

And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.

I was ***** and roughly dressed
And had circles under my eyes
And far far from flirtation
But so full of completion
Of a deed duly done
An act of consummation
That the freedom and force it engendered
Shone and spun
Out of my old raincoat.

It must have looked like love
Or a fabulous free holiday
To the young men sauntering
Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious
For while I was writing it
It was gritty it felt like self-abuse
Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done
Everything in the world
Flowed back
Like a huge bonus.

The world was never going to end
in fire.
It was never thought to.
Now. Thunder comes on.
The raincoat boleros around the street.
   Momentous,
One two slow slow one two. Earth splits
/  an avocado, molten core discarded.

In the southern hemisphere they are waving flags.
Complimentary colors crawl up the sky tiding in.
They are dancing.
     Ba-cha
       -ta,
Me-ren-gue.
     Their hemisphere Charybidises,
trees genuflected.

Quiet. The puddles are sleeping.

In the north. The hemisphere has run aground.
It capsizes. All the bands are going
down playing.

Rain panics off the timpani
prisming.
The brass cherubs in the clouds.
The strings red shift.

At the equator,
an umbrella floats:
1 bird inside it.

She prays in single syllables. Help.
Please.
Quack!

I.
I lift my eyelids.
plipliplip.
The rain invites me to play.
Her cold fingers curl around the doorframe,
"Come on, come sing again! Sing, just like you used to!"
She burbles gleefully.
"Come on, old friend.
We used to be ballerinas, whirling and laughing.
We used to be one
one and the same."
Her fingertips inch through my solid oak door.
I frown and shove the door closed
throw down the lock
yank my curtains closed
Closed to the scent of moss
to the wail of the wind
to the percussion of the weather.
(I prefer the smell of coffee
the sound of silence
of security.)
"I used to be a lot of things," I call.
"But then I grew up."

II.
She knocks at my door.
Again. (memories are persistent.)
Teasing me with her calm voice
whispering lofty and cool.
I sigh
begrudgingly I follow
sliding into my raincoat
tugging up the hood
drawing the string tight around my jaw.
She dances in watery windchimes
sluicing across the slick sidewalk,
she pirouettes
leaps
beckons for me to follow.
My galoshes are not as forgiving as toe shoes; I trip.
I reach out my hand tentatively
curiously
feel a cold ***** of water slide down my index finger.
Icy. Biting.
I gasp and flick it off.
The world is a box of watercolors
but all smeared together in shades of earth.
Shadow, cornflower, lilac, mud
muddy colors I identify straight away.
They bring a smudgy comfort
a hesitant nostalgia.
I feel a note catch in my throat
like trapping a dragonfly in a glass jar.
It flits violently to escape,
but I dare not let it out.
It is sunny under my umbrella.

III.
Late late night
midnight and a half (to be exact.)
I hear her call
frosting my windows with condensation.
I etch into my foggy breath,
feeling the panes hard against my pale skin.
"Come." says her voice.
"Listen--" I protest.
"Live." urges her whisper.
So I fling back the door
let the coolness trickle down my head.
Silver bullets sparkle in the moonlight
I tilt my face towards the crystal beads,
watch them pour across my face.
I shake my flimsy nightgown
sodden with tears never shed.
I twirl, laughing across the yard.
"Old friend, how I have missed you!"
The rain calls to me.
My tears melt with hers
tumbling down my neck.
My words burst forth, a crescendoing horn
swelling across the rooftops
resounding to the deepest roots of the trees.
"I don't want to grow up."