Clouds of ultimatums and of supreme torments.
Tortured gods without the dilemma of kingdoms, free to reign over vacant worlds, growing with the infatuations of upward drifts.
Within the calamity of ages, distilled to measures of failing wrath, they are scuppered by the unlimited spaces in which to dwell, moving onwards over the dream of solidity.
The toil of explosions that never cease, culminating in landscapes of ruin and the sweetness of catastrophe perfecting enactments.
Ineluctable as ghosts.
Their certainty exists as substantive notions without body matter.
Blessings of rain and absolvent cloud cover.
The temperature undergoes a deflation of its surplus.
The routines of the weather systems are miracles performed in the annals of exegesis and the analogues of forgotten tomes.
Stratus, stratocumulus, rarely seen in this Italian summer of prolonged threats – the morbid calefaction of the inactive thermals.
They bring the shadow of recovered escapades, like memories stirred.
Remembrances of the truth of wetness before its evapouration.
The insane furnace of the heat.
Gentle waves of reaction against the impulse of the dreaded warmth.
Rogue males of cumulus over the Appenines, tumbling like trophies of corpses over the broken summer.
The air is a balm that soothes the wounds.
It lays cold hands on the heart and relieves us of the tempers of our riotous inclination.
Cumulus towers forming like explosions in arrested development.
Palpable reactions to extreme heat – reclaiming the skies for the purposes of precipitation.
Behold, the mitigating circumstances of the summary of worlds: staunch vapours.
We relish the interrogations of ultra-form.
Oh bulging emissaries of celestial warping, we are grateful for the delirium of your vertical updrafts.
The Appenines are hazy under your constant healing of wafts.
The weather contains organic thrall – the screed of life.
In pockets of exception, companions of excellence remind us of the value of humans.
Humans of special calibre.
There is no such thing as superiority. There are degrees of warmth and character.
Il tramonto heralds the marriage of heroes.
We are honoured by our participation.
No augmentation is gradual in the smiting of humans.
They are vulnerable to the blazing abundance of the primal aubade.
They complain about its autocratic heat – despair at its burning sensation of passions.
The cower from the solar intimacies of the powers of a literal god unleashed.
The mad god pushes through the flesh of clouds and splays its fingers.
We dare not look upon its tortured majesty for fear of becoming primitive worshipers of a new insanity.
Who would want the responsibility of knowing the minutiae?
The conjoining forces of the setting sun, with the extravagant formations of cumulus lost in the obfuscations at the end of day, are abrupt with their disclosures of meaning.
Beauty is neither a quality nor a description. It is the defining condition of the forms it inhabits.
It inundates the appearance of the whole with the substance of meaning.
All music and poetry aspires to this condition through the apparatus of their formal attributes.
But the detachment stands. We can only mimic the reality of what we feel and see.
And, in the mimicry, the human parts of us are lost in the inadequate withdrawal of our senses from the position we aspire to.
It is like being asleep in a state of mind that relinquishes no dreams.
Drifting to a point of stillness.
Air is like water.