Vernal Fever

Weird Poetry

This season

Does dark things to my mind.

It bludgeons me with vernal fever

And periodic self-hate.

It’s a season that can’t make up its mind

About whether to be hot

Or whether to be cold;

It feels just like I do,

No matter the external temperature

From one moment to the next.

It colours my mind like a pastel Easter egg

Then splashes it with blood.

It’s the wet and the dry all the same

That do me in —

The air drinking up all the sparse wet

And ringing out dry steam and torrents.




*** Don’t forget to mention the snow, Sweet Cheeks. ***

*** Addendum: Yeah… snow too. ***