|
twenty-fifth, jul the twig-weak touch of the monsoon turns the sky so weirdly other-worldly, it's easy pretending i'm riding my bike through the cracked space-streets of either venus or neptune, depending on my mood and the color of the clouds: purple, orange or pink. i heartily HERRRUMPH when below the bloated belly of a poisonous fog, rolling through, leaving a trail of sugar crystals with its snail-like tail. i hardly heed my aching calves, trudging through the thick miasmal soup we used to call "mud" back home. |