Not seen a fog as thick as this in years,
it almost validates the solipsists
the way the world behind me disappears.

To all that think of white as pure and list
the darker hues as rendolent of death,
I dare you to look long into this mist

and let it fill each deep and drawn out breath,
this realm that ruffled Baudelaire’s feathers,
its constant urge to sleep and to forget.

Picture instead the naive dream of heaven,
the psyche ward hues, the orderly angels,
blissed out on Holy Spirit medication,

high mounted speakers giving you an earful
of thrumming harps, as galaxies collide
and black holes eat their planet-buffet fill.

I’d rather push a rock up a steep slide
within the gloomy caves of Tartarus,
and through boredom and anger I might find

a constant flow of meanings and hard truths.


Canto XXXV

Bring on the rain, bring on the rotting leaves,
bring on the low cloud, pump out waves of mist,
bring on the bare branches, I’m keen to brave

the shitty British weather at its worst
as early evening hours diffuse to dark
so I can run alone, and feel so blessed

when there’s no other fecker in my park.

Canto XX

This first line will be followed by cliche—
the sudden chill, the scent of garden fires
towards the end of early autumn days.

And while this trope is overused and tired,
the notion that this sharp, ineffable quale
has stirred the multitudes always inspires

this journeyman bard to roll it out again.
This eternal recurrence works to show
the fact that this experience has been

a part of every scuttling thing that slowed
to raise it’s twitching snout to embered air
and endures til each cosmic furnace blows.

The monk that burns incense says that he shares
this moment with the billions across time
that do the same with focus and with care.

and so, despite these clumsy clunky rhymes
at risk of being a sentimental bore,
I write of autumn bonfires one more time

as I have done a million times before.

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