slate. charcoal. gunmetal. (storm)

A man in China awakes from sleep to find his penis has been stolen.

Men spread rumors that blow jobs cure morning sickness.

A young South African boy is drowned in a bathtub full of boiling water by robbers after the brutal murder of his parents with machete, golf club and gun.

In Brooklyn, the sky gurgles like an overfed stomach.

The darkest shade of dark is challenged when a storm arrives.

The rain drops like non-threatening bullets and press against exposed shoulder blades. A damp shove. The kind of bullets that need to replace the more popular variety.

On a night like this, sadness becomes an afterthought, because one cannot ignore the ghost of Pina Bosch entertaining us with her weathered choreography. These clouds are bodies. The best kind of bodies. Big, voluptuous, curved bodies. Fleshy and supple.

This is the kind of evening that reminds me why I have disposed of monogamy. This night, my mistress becomes the traffic lights blurred by the mist of precipitation.

This night, I let the wind wash away my own secreted salt. The storm arrived inside me hours ago, dare I say, decades ago. This storm is far more radiant.

Am I looking for some destruction? An interruption from this speed of city life?

I’m digging out my passport. It’s time to follow the right one.

Storm, lead me away.

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