A state of saturation, “It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles-against prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent.”- Dave Barry, Glip-Blat-Splot little August showers, Pure Madness, Sylo-Den-Keshia, The joint chiller, The sun and the rain. Walk with me fill my heart again, The wind blows
Slip, slap, blatter, blat.
This is an honest rain – straight as a die.
Not a conniving shower, no, sir, fie.
Not like drizzle – (the sneakster, the smarm).
It falls weighted with some kind of insensate calm.
Or is giddy with joy – dumb, fat, indolent splats,
That batter, and slap us with blat after blat.
It just yearns to be friends,
To our innards descend.
And wants you for a rain beam –
As it massages in, a solid, stoic, stream,
Through your garments – (no control there),
Such an intimate, torrential, steamroller.
Kissing your neck with exsanguinous drips,
Of all consuming, grey, corpulent lips.
And should you sit, to catch your breath,
It will have at your bum, till you catch your death,
So that when you dare, to stand once more,
It’s muculent hand prints, encompass your back door.
The clammy invader, who just wants to play.
I do wish he’d come back some other sodding day.