his soul was the river thames
during the 18th century
floating fetid
full of shite
diseases
corpses and bloat
his mouth was a hellscape
hieronymus bosch’s
early work
his voice was the sound
of two bullet trains colliding
his face
strongly suggested
the need for burial
and yet i stupidly
loved him
the way one comes to love
an old dog
three-legged
one-eyed
who frequently pisses the rug
you smile from time to time remembering him
but how glad you are he’s gone