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.