The Storm

the sky over Jesus Green is one big hangover—black, bloated, hanging there like a miserable drunk who won’t leave the bar, just holding it all back before the rush.

then it starts.

I look up at the shitty streetlight with a sign dangling off the iron: Faulty, please report. like anyone gives enough of a fuck to call it in. the pole stands next to a fat plum tree, both of them useless against what’s coming.

the rain hits like a fistful of nails, slamming into my face so hard it feels personal. a cloud of moths, drunk on the orange glow, spin around the glass until the drops smash them into the metal. the powder-winged bastards are just looking for a dry hole to crawl into and die, same as me.

the leaves take the beating better than I do. big drops explode on the green hide; the veins lit from underneath like a torch held against a hand. water bounces, breaks into a cold mist, and drifts down. it hits my cheeks, running straight into my mouth tasting of soot and wet dirt.

and there I am. alone, naturally. standing in the middle of this biblical piss-storm thinking about South Africa, because even soaked to the skin in Cambridge, the mind takes you back. back to the one place that kicked your teeth in harder than the weather ever could.

rain hammers the skull,
hangover’s fog lifts in sheets,
goddamn wet alarm.