A Drought No Doubt

Late Spring rain clouds hover and tease at the possibility of precipitation. Los Angeles is parched and getting teary eyed with drought. The clouds linger and have a good audible laugh as we squirm. Low and dry.

Hope you brought your appetite. And your knowledge of cutlery. As to which is the salad fork and which the dinner fork. This, observers, is forlornly not the dessert fork but the desert fork. The one you cleave in your fist as you crawl along the Sahara hungrily. Desperate for something resembling salvation.

Put your feet up. Take a load off. This castaway couch will happily help you heft your burdens. The butt grooves beckon. The back cushions invite. But, pray, you do not become enveloped in its offered comfort too long. For it's mother oblivion imploring you to her teat. And you have miles to go before you sleep. Miles to go before you sleep.

Standing guard over Refuse Row are towers of steel and modernity. Fascists armed with humming veins of gigawatts and truncheons of zap. The barbed wire redolent of a Soviet gulag. The gruel and human hardship can be smelled for miles. Twin art deco sentries. Looming and disapproving. I promise to work harder, commandant.

The sky trammeled under endless wires. Like a tangle of pandemonium's coif. Asphyxiating Spring. She's doing us a favour. It's a munificent act of mercy. I've seen enough to know that I have seen too much. She's closing my eyes and bidding me to earned rest.

A cruel cat's cradle. Rocking me to my respite.