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,
perversely;

dreaded shrieks, blastbeats,

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.