Lashing rain and high water,
Venetian high water, on the banks the grey stones
waver and slither in their lines under the waves.
Rubber boots’ steps slosh forward,
the wind is angry, heavy and wet,
a worn out, dirty, gristle-laden blanket blowing.
I try myths, I figure out Aeolus’ s cheeks
and wallow in swarming gashes of loneliness.
Hell is energy, it’s a laden sky shredding eyes
and absorbing wandering memories of redness.
Wearing itself out endlessly in its own vastness.
Wearing itself out endlessly in its own vastness.
A Sunday trudging on like a bloodless drake.
2 comments:
So sad to read about the floods.
I love the phrase 'a laden sky shredding eyes'
the wind is angry, heavy and wet,
a worn out, dirty, gristle-laden blanket blowing.
This commended itself to me, as did the phrase Hell is energy.
It certainly can be, but I'd never have thought of it.
Hope things improve for you all soon.
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