Black Cigarette

(Draws deep on the black cigarette. There are animals (unidentified) squawking, barking and moaning in the darkness. Wonders if he could join them. Complete the chorus, so to speak. The gold tip of the cig is  designed to hint at great quality. Status. He kills himself in style. Yet, still, there is nothing to drink. And ornate bottles promise, goad and bully from the fragments of memory buried low in private, murky recesses. The night is still, aside from the chatter or prayer of the animals. Though an inexplicable and exotic tremor underlies the torpor; as though poised to burst from the tepid trunk of this mortal drudgery from an incomprehensibly preternatural dimension. The fantasy curls with the smoke out into the damp, forgettable evening and dies without a beat, interrupted only by the glow of dead stars.)

He – this man, whoever he is – drops the cigarette onto the grass. He can’t see the grass for the dark but he knows it’s there, humming with a thousand, ancient secrets. And he can’t see the cigarette either. Just its burning tip. He watches it fade; so slowly, as though it is his eyes that are failing. The glow fades until, finally, it disappears altogether. The cigarette, he knows, is still there, somewhere, where he knows the grass must be.

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Let it Rain, Let it Rain, Let it Rain

Cold arse rain. Deep in the chill factor, the blushed faced boy grins, not happy-like, into the whipping water. Summon the demons of the black time. Yeah, well, they say we’re the most depressed in the world. We, as though ‘we’ are all component parts of the same disaster. But I see some sad folks. Some screamed through megaphone fabrics and other let their faces sink into their skulls. You, news, you don’t fool me. What next: ‘Rain is Wet’? And will it make it seem more real, more wet, worse than before? It may.
But then only that you, Mr. News, told us what’s what and that’ll make it all the fouler. Like you’ve stamped something evil upon every drop. The people, well, who knows? And who can say and still maintain that they are a humble assemblage of limbs and wants and hopes. Whoops, the hope dream.
I’m going back out into the rain. And it will be a simple rain. Only weather. I won’t worry about what you’ll call it tomorrow, or in a few seconds time. And who wouldn’t want to fly away, above the heavy clouds, anyway what with your unending sermon of catastrophe. This hymn of disappointment may itself even be responsible for the congregation of clouds above the gray checked surface. But the people will take it; with a scowl, but they will take it. We will soldier on. And we need all the help we can get. But if we are miserable, let us be miserable. At least it’s pure, not tampered with. In my eyes, mixed with rain and tears (ecstatic tears, mind you) the world looks like a smeared fireworks display; crammed with the noises of controlled explosions; from larynx to ear drum; internal combustion to setting sun; the stratospheric cataract that bares no grudge. You’ll stick to your story. I know what’s what. And you know what?
I’ll stick with the rain.