Derrick Brown - The Last Weatherman lyrics

The weatherman lives a life of no poetry. Science holds no imagination to beauty, Science is about all that is real. He performs his final run through before the evening taping muttering the phrases P-p-p partial clouds, hail among thunderstorms, a high pressure system a push of energy moves into the region. His life is controlled. His life is a table for one, always able to find a seat at the movies. Tandem bikes make him want to vomit. Someone always pulling somebody's weight. His desk is dominated by the small dog in big shirts calendar, and a dumb coffee cup. At home there are no plants, Why take care of something that tries to die? This kitchen is just a place to stand. Someone he does not know sent him a package, he does not open it. Feels like a book, no thanks. His bed has one pillow. No one believes it, but the weatherman is happy as he is. Something peculiar happened during the regular evening taping. "And speed." "And we're back with our accu-weather forecast, what's going on in those wild skies of ours Derrick?" "Well I'm glad you asked Leah because we have some - ahem, heavy--- bundling up to do this weekend, due to another high pressure sister, pushing its way like a freak caboose, PCP --- gah, ha, let me retake that. A strong thunderstrum of brain and blaze of hell - hell will fall to refresh, a harbor for the forgotten. Hail in my cave... What? Can I retake that?" And that was the day it started, the day his words fought their way out of his mouth. He walks to work every morning. The sky - blue, The clouds - just white, The coffee - hot. He looks at the picture of the someone he once knew on his desk. The day the words took over was the first day he noticed anything small. The picture on his desk used to tell him “I didn't need you to be love, I needed you to be a solution”, and something strange happened as he stared at his desk, he noticed his coffee mug for the first time. The smooth handle, the stains on the inner lip, the dumb “Coffee makes me poop” slogan. He never thought it was beautiful before today. But he started to think about beautiful holding devices, and his mind began to exhale, after a full life of only inhaling. A homeless man outside the studio asks him what the weather is going to be like. The weatherman replies, “If you get a chance, tune in, we need more viewers” The homeless man plays a broken toy piano, military cutoff fingered gloves The homeless man says, “Hey, give me some insight brother, do I gotta find shelter tonight or what? And don't tell me to ‘tune in' or I'll eat your mouth” And the weatherman tried to construct a sensible response, but all that came out was “zzzz - thunderstrum--zz- a blaze of hell-zzzzz- I don't know what's going on” And the homeless man said “Holy Moley. It found you.” “What found me?” “The bad weather of words, and you needed it too! You're a big ugly vase, and all your flowers is dead. The bad weather of words commands us all to celebrate and spin around. Consider the beaten pinata. They may beat you to bits, but you still have to prove there's good candy inside. You just gotta shake it around. You notice the living now. You need to spaz bonfire; the bad weather of words tells you to burn like the city of watts, before the riots, when the fire was building inside of people first. So is a hard brain gonna fall?” “Yes” “Well then I'll find shelter. When I get wet I go home and change. Enjoy the burn, enjoy the burn, freak caboose” And it was the day words found him. His lips, wet like nine volt batteries, his lungs shrank, his breathing turtled. His heart growing away from its old scuttled shell. His break room ice cream melted, as it should, but it was now not a mess, but a chance to lick his hand. The weatherman tried to warm up for the Saturday evening taping, and all that came out was, “Ladies and gentlemen there will be a tasty, solid chill in the air, let's do a penguin belly glide on it. Ladies and gentlemen, the oncoming humidity is going to unbu*ton every denim blouse and unzip every costume in the city. Ladies and gentlemen, you will now need to set your windshield wipers to gospel AHHHHHHHHHHH. Ladies and gentlemen the wind is coming, and it is going to be so calm, you'll want to whisper back ‘I missed you' in fake French ‘Le foundwah, de su check' Ladies and gentlemen you can see we have a stampede of storms on the radar, I recommend you ride it for 9 seconds cowboy.” It was exhausting, but Saturday night finally ended the way the weatherman secretly wished it would. Like a good poem, unexpected, warm, quiet. It ended like moonlight into the ground. So here's to punching holes in the ceiling, and waiting for the stars to s**. Here's to the bad weather of words finding you. To the nails in the black air, being pulled out by the pa**ionate claw hammer. The night sky blanketing down upon us in jet black silk and octopus feet. Here's to the thunderstrums, and your oncoming blaze of hell. If you're cooking something in your kitchen tonight, slow down, see the meal in your pot. Notice the pot, maybe leave the meal in the sauce a little longer. Look out the window, a high pressure sister, is definitely coming our way.