cracked
And Boelo hasn't let up this evening. A screaming wind is whining across as I write this, tugging at rooftops and chimney pots, bending trees, mashing fences to the accompaniment of battering squalls of rain. This evening's events - the annual Lightpool festival and a firework display - have been cancelled and anyone with any sense is hunkered down and hoping for the best as 80mph gusts tear in from the Irish Sea. If I still drank whisky, I would be doing so now, with headphones clamped on and a bit of Wagner blasting out.
wild and windy way
An amber alert has been advised for the north-west and this storm is going to rage all night...for an extra hour as well, because the clocks go back. It's a wild one, Boelo (meaning brave or strong apparently) and here's a strange new poem to suit the mood. It comes with the caveat that it may get modified down the road.BoeloHow was it for you? he asked, basking in the aftermath like some spent, self-satisfied lover seeking affirmation.Rewind a few hours...He came in sweeping off the western sea, blindly lustingin his passion, ripped and roaring, set on forcing himselfon whatever lay in his whoring way. It was her bad luck, poor, gap-toothed Funtown, to fall prey to his attentions,who was minding her business, trying to enjoy a Saturdaynight with mates. She'd been warned about his sort beforebut you've got to live, don't you. He ripped apart defencesand battered and pounded, on and on. No more, she cried,no more, make it stop, but he was deaf to entreaty. Wherehe got the strength from she didn't know, and he came onthis senseless Boelo, mad for it, a force of nature, passionwithout pause, his agonising onslaught lasting until dawn.It was then, assuaged, that he asked so how was it for you? Terrifying, she whimpered, shivering still. A violation.
Thanks for reading, S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to XShare to Facebook
