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