Thirty Short Poems About My Favorite Black Metal Band
If I'd had my wits about me
I'd have numbered these poems in French.
Une. Deux. Trois. Et cetera.
It might have seemed clever, in a quiet sort of way.
Of course there are those people these days
who are put off by French things.
I wish all those people would die
in a gigantic flaming auto accident,
the acrid fumes spewing from molten steel,
melting plastic, and burnt bone
causing recess to be cancelled
at a nearby elementary school.
So many sad children.
One happy black metal dude.
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