the lead red rain dream

Déjà vu. the rain. everywhere the rain. on the window of the waiting room, condensed.

the glass, the wetness, the sad brilliance of muted blue. broken footsteps dismember

the torpid oneirophrency. shafts of swirling projection bring the damp rumble of steel

wheels on cracked rails and refract the constancy of imminence with clattering reproach.

the rain melts echo, absorbs blasphemy and refracts the spasms of sorrow into glops of

prayed containment. these frozen moments relinquish mists of tepid steam at the reeking

dawnbreaks flimsy glimmer. in winter, even before, after, knowledge is useless.

the train sweeps through a funnel of night. the light, the smoke, the brown carriage, the

call; the queen boadicea, the miserable cow staring, the chicken burger suicide, the light,

the light is mushroom, the smoke white, hanging. dismal. stop. the abandoned bicycle by

the pristine phone box.

hard and fast the boyfriend drags the car, the chick, the strapping kiss into reverse and

up the rural strip tips the lovers over a hump and into oblivion or paradise. it’s hard

to tell what’s out there, in this (noah’s) light. the bicycle, trusting, stands in a state of

reflected deference by a puddle still buzzing, ripple-ridden and star pocked from the car

flung pebble shot, now clamped in the wet embrace of the puddles bellowed belly. the

bike, inhaled and sceptered, wades in wait, for the puddle, vacuous, to discharge her

latent image through wind or frost or footstep. disgorged and scattered by the hobnailed

guardian of the line, the soul of the puddle parts with her flickering spirit from deep

within the minor dream of the hanging clouds’ dark imprecation. remembering dreams,

memories echo becomes memory again. rain dream, rain. Déjà vu. doing gods will. 
forget it. forget it. forget. forget what? forget me, how, what’s to remember?

a dream. time to wake up. standing in the puddle, legs chapped. dance.

the telephone ringing the night out. now the Christ is banging the bell. the Christ. the

bell. my Christ, the bell. sledgehammers on concrete, a small river gurgles. the bedstead

sinks in concrete. up to his arse, the actor. you heard. third degree burns. that’ll teach the

ignorant git. there was a monk standing by the gate post. see the monk, the black monk

standing by the gate post, by the river; the sewage farm tomatoes, a dog’s skeleton -

lurcher - railway switch, the shotgun, that was never a ghost; the monk by the gatepost,

the black monk standing by the gate post, that one, that one was as real as a bluebell.

hello? hello? no-one. nothing. leave the phone off the hook. let it ring. at this time of the

night, sidi bou said, everybody’s out. go home and wait.

on the train people read newspapers. it is the dead of night I miss you in. the dead of

night. whisper. look out of love. I saw you on the television. I saw you. it was snowing.

man falls over, enthusiast dies, man with wart in kissing bid. the train piles east. coming

back to suffolk, everything is rehearsed. it’s red. the empty rain. the red the lead, the lead

red rain. in my heart the rain sings a distant song of melancholy redemption banging hot against the burning light that does not warm the blackening stars and such. when I pray, coincidences happen. stop. when I don’t pray – they don’t happen as much.

22.12.97