The storm heads this way,
dragging its pregnant, swollen belly
over Craggy’s wooden top.
We can feel it.
My hairs stretch skywards,
and spectres of bonfire and drum
flicker on my mind walls.
All oneness,
the cats,
slick furred tigers
screech to the gloomy sky.
The tree’s shiver.
A rain dance
for hermit crows.
Lovers rock lie’s empty and cold.
Its lovers hidden at home,
untangle and find sheets and hot skin
no longer comforting.
Children flee their metal testing grounds
to find little comfort
in the T.V’s babble.
The window tells no lie.
Above on the hill,
Kerouac’s bearded bhikku
pulls up his hood and watches.
And
waits.
And
waits.
The storm shears the silence
With thunderous orgasm.
Its moan of relief
makes me shudder,
makes the children shriek,
makes the T.V. flicker,
once,
twice,
off.
I want to dance,
woad faced and naked.
Spin like a planet and stamp like a bull.
I want to dance,
woad faced and naked,
And feel logic in the raindrops
*wrote this sitting on a hill near my house, watching a storm roll in*
benjy
