Thirty Short Poems About My Favorite Black Metal Band
Whether I approve of his methodology
or not, friends,
there is a man in France
who, once in a while,
steals an evening in a local studio
or perhaps only in his bedroom
overlooking an alley
or a field
or a street.
Sealed safely away inside,
he dreams out loud the original sound
of all the world's volcanos
at the great moment
of their simultaneous and unknowable
It's not the volcanos that do it for me.
It's the guy in France
in the room I can half-imagine
chasing sleep down like a starved hound
standing at the precipice of his dream
shielding his eyes.
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