grey spring. Thunder clanging like Hephaestus, a deep thud alight beyond the periphery of the hills, the hills droop like benign old men, there is a minute without sound in the sky, as an addition to the portent, rain begins everywhere—slakes the marasmus and leaves the child land saturated like a grey sponge. It murmurs against surfaces and down into vermiculate gulfs of dried sewage slides. The rain tells of a span in life not properly consumed by time—as if the moment were a presence sort of and jut like a bone broken through flesh. Mosquitoes copulate, then drown, in puddles; across the way one spies a dog drenched and hunching beneath the wreckage of a dead tree. I am inside but somehow it is no different—a base, a more vicious nature drums in my life and is black as the clouds and from the clouds the lightning descends in forked anger. The sky cracks ope as would a skull. I trace an indecipherable cause in the alloy of the light, set like a trance of fire for just a moment and abnormally across the frontier. There was a time when the WORLD was ruled by lizards; and humanity, still then a question that the thunder asks. And even now are we still green for this WORLD, still halfcreated in ourselves, in this jail of psyche we rage against; unknown is the next level of truth that shall belie the strengths of our greatest men and women. Unknown is the thunder.
Re: grey spring. Doc, I've said it before. Both syntax and style are equally two edged swords. They can each pull in, engage, or they can push away defensively. Language here does not engage me. Something else maybe. Visuals can be often used as a crutch for the dirty, compromising stuff of the written word.