Pareidolia

It was all about a grim, Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night In Hithergreen, London’s belching south, Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and In the silence of grieving mornings . . . Bulbous clouds bleeding with strained oomph Would stir the ingravescence of patented ills. The trains always come railing! Railing loud and silly Like heathen bandits with no shame. But before such mornings, A half-distilled liquored, low-brewed Evening caused me tears When I chopped onions. A spruced up harlot was coming to dinner By the way! Oh, yes, from London’s bleached Soho, Venue for awesome sex. I may have forgotten to tell you, brother, But through the insistence on cutting further deep, There it stood! Ilse Koch! An old character! She piled up arms against ashen flesh, Fomenting tears to rain down on the faces of many. And with each stare, I asked for permission to be laconic Just to preserve the dews Of the heated stove near the chimney of an Age-battered window of a grey, frazzled winter night.