Black Rain

Spring Sessions III 50 x 70 cm acrylic/spraypaint on paper

BLACK RAIN (PERSEPHONE)

Black rain drilling little holes

clean through self-esteem on this

totally fucked January twilit

day making us feel at least                                 

50 % dumber and uglier than we

do in summer. Half the world is online, the

other half dreaming of the right content—  

it might be naked wet bodies smacking

into each other, or tea ceremony demo

by a Japanese monk. Lady de Winter

offers you a toxic joint. You refuse but

sadly, with reluctance, a touch resentful

of your own rejection of reckless liberty. Has courage   

shriveled up and crawled back to its itsy-bitsy cubicle

or is sound judgement making a half-assed comeback?

And how much of this means anything

or fits in the plan as such? There is

one crucial indisputable but subliminal

suspicion: that no one, anywhere, at anytime

gives a damn if Earth’s daughter returns or not.

It’s as if my physician, shaking his head, says

I have great news for you, Kenneth, but I couldn’t care less.