BALEARIC BLUES
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WHERE TIME INHALES,
AND HOLDS ITS BREATH…
wind ghosts on around shutters
tramontana they call it
cliffs of rain hung overhead,
this is not what we came for
watching yellow sheath figures
dodge from awning to canopy
on Carrer de ses Moreres
down towards Santa Maria,
splashing down cobbles
from the braided horses
to the melancholy mermaid,
who’s spattered moisture-sheen
is the closest she’ll get to waves,
human all-over condoms in
drooling shrapnel-sharp spray,
a spiral-swirl singularity of
rain-tide dislocating space-time
around a blocked grate…
but there are enough poems
and song-lyrics about rain,
who needs more? not me,
and beside our bed there’s a
flask of piss-yellow pomada
from bottle to our veins,
but as elements conspire
you are my eyes’ drug
all choice evaporates,
leaving us no option
but to lie here
& make sweet 69
until it abates…
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