That’s what the weather man calls it. Personally I like my drizzle lukewarm but there doesn’t seem to be a menu option for that. The drizzle is a fact the way a marching band is a fact. There’s not much you can do about it. You just have to absorb it.
What is freezing drizzle? It’s “sleet light”. It’s failed snow. It’s the weather of homesickness and furtive glances and abandoned machines.
I want to walk outside and shout: “Screw You Freezing Drizzle!” How hopeless the enterprise! The marching band is playing Broadway favorites. Its halftime in a very boring football game. The Marching Drizzlers can’t hear a thing I say.
The Drizzle is a darkling phenomenologist. It says there is no “I” contingent with the self; it says that reality is naked and shapeless. Face it, its a boring professor.
It’s a pain in the ass.
I appear to be decidedly “not” in a holiday mood. Capitalism has killed my seasonal sentiments. I’m despising Xmas music. I’m feeling like Sid Vicious. All I want to do is play a Sex Pistols record backwards and snarl in the crown of a freezing tree.
What’s wrong with me? Why did I laugh yesterday when I heard that Macy’s escalator caught fire in New York?
Drizzle laughs at our dreams of salvation.
Drizzle waves the blown trees in the gypsy’s faces.
Drizzle gets inside us, like a dark membrane.
Sound of grind stones, sound of broken windows.
O the alter procession of the drizzle. Its sad boats filled with dried flowers…
Save your chestnuts on the open fire and Jack Frost nipping at your noses. I’ve got the king of drizzle here. He sings of the abyss and of people lost. He doesn’t have a recording contract…
He is real and he says that he’d cold cock Santa Claus if he gets in the way…