Every October I start to get upset. <br />The factories' hundred throats blow smoke to the sky. <br />The pullets are getting fat <br />for Christmas Day. <br /> <br />So I'll bray at our bleached and atrophied souls <br />and melt a thousand icebergs over the old scrolls, <br />the frightened mysticisms <br />of religions. <br /> <br />Find a decent spirit? Pretty hard. <br />Legitimacy? Sure. It's a well-kept yard, <br />But who's gonna bless our kitchens <br />till the end? <br /> <br />I'll say my prayers again to the Ice Age Snow, <br />and cry to the wind, 'You too, you crooked old fart!' <br />'cause nothing'll take a load off you <br />like that. <br />(And with the Snow, falls pity. The withering kind. <br />Those folks you always see with the hearts of leather? <br />Someone should throw them a line, <br />but will they ever?) <br /> <br />So, yeah. You can tear at your ears, but it's a fool's sport. <br />'Cause nothing--not the seasons, art, the skies-- <br />is worth two cents of skirt <br />and a pair of eyes. <br /> <br />Look, sweet. Two cents of skirt and a still-warm zipper <br />and two cents worths of looks and what comes after . . . <br />surely that's the remedy <br />for ennui.<br /><br />Jules Laforgue<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/october-s-little-miseries/
