The State of a Grey Cloud

What must I accumulate in the pursuit of a grey cloud,

But introspection of the vapour in me?

The fallen cannot be followed, though they trickle off my shoulders,

They run vapid down the gutters, into sea.

The path I swim is torrential—all the weather warnings know,

The forecast is a pellet, waggling ripples off my nose.

I’m snagged in a branch—a Blanche, a glass away from Johnnie Walker,

A nephophile without an umbrella, an unprepared cloud stalker.

And when I finally feel the downpour curate a callous on my palms,

I dissipate to disappoint, drop my shoulders and my arms, and cry,

Be honest! Honest! I’m tired of keys and ease,

Sick of clogged sinks, sunk drinks, and far too many zs

To see when red lightning fills my eyes, and peers’ fear calm where anger’s not,

I’ll keep the kite flying high to defer shrapnel from the angler’s rod,

And when it splits and lodges deep in thenar space like a greedy carp’s cheek,

A pacifist in Athena’s place, not in a common Odyssey,

I’ll pray to a false god, and a bible bled fish paste, 

Five thousand blamed for being on their knees, but you’ll look them in the face, and leave.

When there’s no thunder left to threaten, no prophet left to feign,

I set the kite down gently, let the wind forget my name.

All I wanted was Wordsworth to plant a willow and call it history,

But he’s dead in the daffodils, gone with his dancing breeze.

Here I remain, in sparkling waves of glee, 

Following my pain, because I know it will never follow me.

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I suppose this is the other side of the coin to last week's post, and that's okay. Rather than two entities drawn together in a passive transcendentalism (exploring nature and texture), the speaker in this piece explores the complexities of actively hunting something they know full well is unhealthy and harmful, yet allows the suffering to overtake them in pursuit of honesty and context. I think my readers may empathise with a desire for context as I sometimes ponder whether the process by which my different coloured threads of imagery intertwine is jarring for those who haven't read Streetcar, or don't know what pellet waggling is. I like to believe that it is these niches which shape my writer's voice because it allows me to draw art and poetry from the things that have so much texture to me. I'm also aware that these niches infuriate those who wish for me to conform, and threaten those whose illegible nonsense tries (and fails) to give some insight into something they know nothing about. It is not my place, however, to draw meaning from the rain that others have inside, only to walk away when the storm nears. I swear next week's post will be the next issue of the travel blog. I'm not going to swear on anything just in case, but know that I'm trying, and it's going to be a fun read. Thank you.