Acid Rain

I came down in drizzle early on the morning of April 23.

I must have looked classy with the sun behind me, my friends and I gently falling to earth with an offshore breeze at our backs.

There was just enough of us to dampen the grass, shine the gum leaves and make the corrugations in the iron roofs drip once or twice.

Not me though.

I landed on a concrete path in a century old state school yard, falling between buildings old and new funded by governments both long and recently departed.

I fell on the remains of a boiled lolly ground into the concrete.

And instantly became acid and cerise hued.

That was a first.

I have been in an Alaskan glacier for thousands of years, waiting in silence until I was calved in relentless noise.

I have been dirty and polluted in an Indian tannery, till I was drunk by a sacred cow.

Pissed out more than once.

Diseased in a Pilgrim’s morning urine, secretly tainted with syphilis splashing with steam on the New World’s dead, winter grass.

Bursting with suppressed excitement while cooling other electrons in a Russian nuclear power station.

Now I begin to dry and up into the sky I go, fruity and a little fizzy.