Waiting for Thunder

Warten auf Donner - Waiting for Thunder 50 x 70 cm

WAITING FOR THUNDER

I can barely conceal my contempt, boredom,

and a creeping self-pity not so much

shameless as triumphant. Dinner guests I’ve known,

I feel, since the latter days of the Roman Empire

are partly responsible for this. The air is thunder

heavy and the thermometer’s about to have a heart attack

and I have a strange need to break out in archaic verse

O Iseult, shave thy body of excess hair/ And toss

thy pelt upon the soft evening air, etc.

Even violence seems an option as I 

wait for that perfect implement of destruction

to find its way into my hands. It’s eighty-degrees

in the bed room. The world has forgotten how to breathe.

The cats are door mats made of fur. Clouds pressing down 

so close there’s no oxygen left. If rain does come, I swear  

I just might blossom. Talk about Flowers of Evil! Then you,

Iseult, will have no choice   

but to stick me into a leaky   

Moroccan vase the color of Saharan sand and inside which 

I will cool my toes, dreaming of windy, sane mornings in September. 

 Leider hat uns Blogger gestern einen Strich durch die Rechnung gemacht und wir konnten unseren post nur "leer" veröffentlichen. Bitte entschuldigt!

Sorry for the empty posts yesterday. Blogger was unable to send it out correctly.

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