There will be no demonstrations.

I apologise for the lack of preamble to yesterday's last post. I think it should stand on its own and if you don't know what it is about then don't worry.

What about the big stuff? You can't let bad stuff get you down otherwise who or whatever has won.

Much of this entry has been deleted. Things could be far worse. Anway, I am afraid you get another poem, which I realise is only filler but there you go.

Chromatography 30/06/1992

Fat with the tired lines
of a Thailand doctor,
I rest just in shelter.

She has talked of tropical weather
and sealed it in her missive
but did not warn me of the joke.

The retinal storm has scattered
and we breath water,
dream of the white noise
and sleep with the fear of drowning.

She is the weather god,
sent to trap such magic,
weather control in ink and paper.

All expertise is lost in this grey wall,
a scream in the ears
on the cleared borders,

the wired forest
which invades the medicine,
dilutes the fluids heavily
andf soaks away prescription ink.

In the black percussionary weather
she introduces temperate ice
to all her Asian children,

the heretical infants
of gutted rhythm in the minefields
where the weather never ends.