Wednesday, 25 April 2012


april rain, relentless, unwipable, the cold burns through the skin; weary of knitted things, hats, coats worn inside the house, two hats, sometimes and a scarf....
the north is brutal, cruel; fingers of cold like knives; sneering at the idea of spring, summer a joke. Amun-Ra has never been here, he doesn't waste his time; 

all  the cold, the rage, the brutality is presided over by frightful norse bastard Frey, or rude and nasty Thor, hammerlike rain thundering down on our heads while we're scurrying ratlike through London's streaming streets ...

 rain pouring through cracks in jerry built ceilings and black cabs' sadistic delight in careening close to the kerb and blasting us with cold filthy water.

 On days like these I want a machete to slice through the thick, low sky; cut a hole in it the size of Abyssinia and release the poor exiled oppressed sun.

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