Rainy Day(Poem)

The smell of the sky
is no more earth-ly
but man-ly
like sewer
Sulphated—with shit
very stale.

I took the usual
blue dotted umbrella
my neighbor Cathy gave me for my
mom’s anniversary.
What a strange gift!
who gives an umbrella as a gift?

The day was old
like a 3000 year old Egyptian mummy.
men and women were beefy
in their big bevvy of coats
with mundane shoes/boats
painted with brown mud.

The windows blew in their
same temporal space
the noses had flu
the larynx had lust
the rosy tongue had cravings for a
steaming tea
and lips biting in shady romances.

the man in front of me
had a goat face and his wife
had pores like small crannies on rock
with little makeup.

the whole civilization of umbrellas
And the trauma filled hats
got the glory for a brief time.

while I search for similes
bards were hemming words
with whisky
with dyed hands
sneezing solitude and insolvent words.

everyone went under the tree
for false protection
under a phalanx of emotions
and I lighted a cigarette
to subdue the sinews of regret
and devour the last dareness, darting in my soul.

some lost in cell-phones
others in debts, deceits, and culture of sinning
all under a wet mask.

the frogs

pixels of the eye disturbed
lighting struck the tree
people died.

The end.

—Drunken Monk

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