Rude Weather

The weather is rude,
Dirty skies the colour of truck stop toilets
Where attendants on drugs refuse to mop.
This rain soils the earth so that no one objects when a man says, "It's pissing rain."
I miss the sun, the source of my soul's photosynthesis.
Great floods Noah the land and Job the human spirit.
There is no Cleopatra or  Niling resurrection forecast.
I am not Mark Anthony and cannot caesar rain.
Were I to say "Et tu, Brute', I'd say it to the weather,
This season of quakes,  tsunamis, floods and now just  pissing rain,
Mixed metaphors,  dangling propositions and even threats to oxymoron,
All drown a human dream of frollck
For surely no one can frollick in such pissing rain.

This rude weather defies prediction, denies manipulation.
Humbling even the best of us,
Poets,
Trying to make a tired living
Transmuting pissing modernity into something with heartfelt soulfulness
This presumptuous rain slyly slithers and seeps into underthings
Causing imagineless censors to demand passionless judges
Impale this rude rain on sex offender lists.
But this rain is as fecund as  the Rape of the Sabines
And promises tomorrows rain forest jungle vegetation  of dank crankiness,
Grist for the visual genius of  Emily Carrs and  Groups of Seven.
.
The dribbling tear drops of poets quickly become angry riffs  and storms of metal  musicians,
Who were it not for poets wouldn't even know of rain for they  dare not leave  their synthetic nighttime bunkers,
Fearing the natural elements might cause them to symphony.
This pissing rain could turn a heavy metal  musician into a light organic  folkie or worse a soul brother gospel singer.
This rain is that wet with irony.

In fact, It's all wet.
It's so wet and ill mannered,
I shant invite it to afternoon tea.
It bullied it's way into breakfast already.
And I can't go out and play again till it's left. Phooey!