Comments about Jules Laforgue
October's Little Miseries
Every October I start to get upset.
The factories' hundred throats blow smoke to the sky.
The pullets are getting fat
for Christmas Day.
So I'll bray at our bleached and atrophied souls
and melt a thousand icebergs over the old scrolls,
the frightened mysticisms
Find a decent spirit? Pretty hard.
Legitimacy? Sure. It's a well-kept yard,
But who's gonna bless our kitchens
till the end?
I'll say my prayers again to the Ice Age Snow,
and cry to the wind, 'You too, you crooked old fart!'
'cause nothing'll take a load off ...