rain on the back of a spoon

I walked in time with the rain. the drops hitting and breaking the films of water. Light brillianced itself on the tears. The beams fluoresced in the thousand spinning directions and if my eyesight were good enough I would have seen the universe reflected and refracted in minutely contained systems of thought. Her face was a mosaic, each drop a tessera in the slowly formed, crazy paved snow of her mouth. I looked up, concentrating on clouds and rain fell thousands of feet to the beginning of vision. That drop hit my eye and exploded its absorbed memory across my jelly, and squinting I saw mountains and hills of vomit and shit. I walked around all day with that vision, everything coated in a thick marmalade of ejected bile and waste. There was an emptiness in the water that drowned the piteous breath. I saw James Armstrong in tears with a black face wondering why I had hit him so hard in a play fight. I saw Emily Watson reeking of tears, her mother writing a letter of complaint to the school. I held that Bunsen burner to her arm for a good six seconds or so. That old bitch from the cigarette shop was there, face twinkling in the spangle of revelation. From puddles came hands and arms and bodies. The sound of the rain wrote a score of memory shards. On car rooftops the music was strobing a flashing dream cube of jewellery box kisses and pincushion screams. The birds washed parasites from their wings. I was fading, falling, flashing on and off in a storm of pixels. This was a fever, a dark enlightenment, a tormented lie and a life. The light was a manifestation of all image in all time, it limped across a succession of hatchings and cross hatchings and blurred pencil dots of smudged matchsticks, it made circles of pendulous suns that swung on cotton threads. There was a return of church tower bells, sweat sick farts of echoing death. In the mirrors a hedgehog wobbles at the curb with an egg in its mouth and a little girl in red shoes stops to throw love hearts at its head. Mark Wayne washes his car with a hose while day dreaming about his sister. A translucent bloke staggers home drunk in the wishy washy blue flag of disappearing stars. A drop runs down a purple paper window of crushed crepe and inside like the back of a spoon I can see you play with light, the way your whole body is an echo makes my face vibrate bi proxy. The blunt diadem crescents the mouth shaped mirror as the burnt image becomes a stainless voice.