Black metal in low summer.

tides of black and fury,
wash over days of pitch lament and worry;

summer’s come and done, the trees know it,
balmy nights call icy light of autumn mornings,

dreaded shrieks, blast-beats,

remedy, therapy, for agonised vastnesses—
(happiest back when least happy, such irony
should be illegal, banned perhaps—),

infernal decadence or vobiscum satanas,
sinking into familiar nothingnesses,
as by poppy, mandragora.