God of Night

Her blue eyes, her sandy hair swishing, her nice young breasts underneath her top, her placid careful footsteps down the lane, the way she twists to look around half-concerned at something behind her in the afternoon street, her softly shaded blurs of feature and set in there the clear blue eyes, her T-shirt is smooth and lined in indie girl black and white burglar stripes, her jacket is for summer all nice and smooth, swishes, her feet tread markedly down the plaza.
She disappears past the fences smiling evilly to herself and is swallowed up past housecorners by mounds of grass. Her pretty shoes swishing the soaking ribboned grass of late summer rain.
Now in the evening in the dark outside it rains again. All is silent outside. Then murmured young voices meeting darkly in the street to plan dingy kitchensink dramas. In the dark their faces are as glum as opals, they move on, eyes upraised in the glorious hope of kitchens and early nights somewhere behind locked prefabricated doors all inked with the cloudy effervescent flood of night everywhere, hiding impenetrably with her in the midst of her warmth, she doesn't know, can't ever care, she's pink and fleshy and utterly exhausted drowning in a big dreamy sulk like the sleep of Orpheus angels in cells everywhere, like malcontent eyemovements neath crinkly eyelids surrendered in a silky tomb.
Just then I heard the loneliest sound in the world and a sound which always echoes in my heart, the rhythmic sound of a faraway forlorn car passing on distant road in the dark and through the rain, which coincided sadly and damply with freezing dripdrops of splatter rain that dimpled the clinical uncaring iron rim of the double glazing, these orange suburban houses all have double glazing and are dead. Still I can hear that heartbreaking hush faraway on the edge of hearing almost which is utterly grim and satanic and like purple intensified till it all becomes a blueblack cloud of night.
To me the God of Night was always tall and crooked and gaunt, he was plushly enwrapped in purple velvet coffin linings, he fills every inch of the sky with his purple, just like a vast curvaceous cinema screen which michelangelo laboured for fifteen years to tarnish potblack, tinctured with a dab of deep azure.
The God of Night is blue and has a hollow face, curls around the whole sky. Sometimes when he's really feeling wet and drippy in his awesome gloom he sets the silent stormclouds to weep and disperse like wraiths and dimples the dome with stars, glimmers of eyes in the black fabric.
The noise of a car door opening on Halloween. A Celtic prince just ran outside and slammed and locked the door of his car. The sound of it echoed round the silent neighbourhood and he struggled back indoors. As if he was fleeing from some vast inevitable pursuit.