blair-griffith - Hello Poetry

Honestly I feel as though this entire time I've been pacing back and forth, accruing images of two ice caps slowly breaking themselves apart into tiny fragments of burning pitch that hurls itself onwards into the night, leaving bleeding trails of light as reminders, notes with coffee stains on the edges, written late at night without much light except for what scraps pour out from under the door from the reading light. You want to breathe normally but the bag won't inflate and it's so hard to calm down when everyone else is shaking and crying and prostrating themselves as though they'll consecrate the middle aisle with their cheap pleas for salvation, for their young childrens' lives, and for all the time they wasted ******* quietly in the dark after the reading light went off and even though they had a headache. They sing a song of mutual slump, of tacit awareness of the grandiose ******** of 75 years spent in too quiet comfort concerned with small victories and unconcerned with massive regrets. Then daylight breaks and you have to look your coffee stains straight in the eye and pretend they're just blemishes when they're sores and wounds and abscesses. And before long the paper disintegrates into brown pulp and you hate that you hate yourself because surely someone is more ****** than you. But that's just one moment out of the day, and you live them endlessly, you love them endlessly, overthinking, underthinking, drinking till you can't feel your extremities and then toying with a knife because you know you couldn't otherwise. Then you nick your pinky and realize how ******* stupid you must look, trapped in your own kitchen hearing your wife down the hall resent you more and more, her distaste, stained the color of sea foam off the coast of Cyprus, her frown fixed forever forward toward your back, and her face makes you sigh, and it's the same sound as before, sure, but now you know what is happening when these tiny admissions of regret escape from anyone else's lips. Then the plane picks up out of its nosedive and people cry and hold each other and you feel more dead than if your body had just ended up tangled in the wreckage of a turbine engine, your intestines laced between the blades like the back of a corset that gets tighter and tighter until you can't feel it anymore because you're numb.

0

Jan 2, 2014

Jan 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC

blair-griffith

this poem is terrible and selfish

Honestly I feel as though this entire time I've been pacing back and forth, accruing images of two ice caps slowly breaking themselves apart into tiny fragments of burning pitch that hurls itself onwards into the night, leaving bleeding trails of light as reminders, notes with coffee stains on the edges, written late at night without much light except for what scraps pour out from under the door from the reading light. You want to breathe normally but the bag won't inflate and it's so hard to calm down when everyone else is shaking and crying and prostrating themselves as though they'll consecrate the middle aisle with their cheap pleas for salvation, for their young childrens' lives, and for all the time they wasted ******* quietly in the dark after the reading light went off and even though they had a headache. They sing a song of mutual slump, of tacit awareness of the grandiose ******** of 75 years spent in too quiet comfort concerned with small victories and unconcerned with massive regrets. Then daylight breaks and you have to look your coffee stains straight in the eye and pretend they're just blemishes when they're sores and wounds and abscesses. And before long the paper disintegrates into brown pulp and you hate that you hate yourself because surely someone is more ****** than you. But that's just one moment out of the day, and you live them endlessly, you love them endlessly, overthinking, underthinking, drinking till you can't feel your extremities and then toying with a knife because you know you couldn't otherwise. Then you nick your pinky and realize how ******* stupid you must look, trapped in your own kitchen hearing your wife down the hall resent you more and more, her distaste, stained the color of sea foam off the coast of Cyprus, her frown fixed forever forward toward your back, and her face makes you sigh, and it's the same sound as before, sure, but now you know what is happening when these tiny admissions of regret escape from anyone else's lips. Then the plane picks up out of its nosedive and people cry and hold each other and you feel more dead than if your body had just ended up tangled in the wreckage of a turbine engine, your intestines laced between the blades like the back of a corset that gets tighter and tighter until you can't feel it anymore because you're numb.

1

The petulant embrace of a middle aged man Signals my return from the bombardment As the ramparts crumble, spraying choking fragments of Grecian influence ‘round the temple grounds He looks behind our momentary tenderness To see the ruined state of the state And as if spurred by some horrid god, cries In the voice of his daughters, “But from where did you amass such a guilt? From whom did you learn to bundle your clothes up All haywire and royal like that? What purpose Is garnered from the dereliction of duty? The rash abandonment of the grueling caste? It prickles my skin, leaving boils and coils Of wasted epiderms, who sit and wonder About the condition.” My tears welled with eyes, Fresh droplets of sight dripping With every twist of my neckpiece. But from this point I must return My liquefaction awaits eagerly To hear news of the front The bombardment must keep itself from reticence Lest we lose our footing in the paradigm parade.

0

Jun 29, 2013

Jun 29, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC

blair-griffith

Paradigm Parade

The petulant embrace of a middle aged man Signals my return from the bombardment As the ramparts crumble, spraying choking fragments of Grecian influence ‘round the temple grounds He looks behind our momentary tenderness To see the ruined state of the state And as if spurred by some horrid god, cries In the voice of his daughters, “But from where did you amass such a guilt? From whom did you learn to bundle your clothes up All haywire and royal like that? What purpose Is garnered from the dereliction of duty? The rash abandonment of the grueling caste? It prickles my skin, leaving boils and coils Of wasted epiderms, who sit and wonder About the condition.” My tears welled with eyes, Fresh droplets of sight dripping With every twist of my neckpiece. But from this point I must return My liquefaction awaits eagerly To hear news of the front The bombardment must keep itself from reticence Lest we lose our footing in the paradigm parade.

24

0

Sep 25, 2012

Sep 25, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC

blair-griffith

And they hardly noticed his presence.

16

Topped in decadent Impermanence, Fleeting, ephemeral truths As to composition, weight, Significance of aromas Precision and remain La clé du succès And yet, Middling amongst these Quantities of victory, the variable, The individual, whose own mark Shall define that meticulously crafted Breeze of leaves, mosses, and tree bark Based in such mutability, Shelley himself Might wonder why it is These artistes de parfum Create as they do.

0

May 26, 2012

May 26, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC

blair-griffith

L'eau de la vie (The Water of Life)

Topped in decadent Impermanence, Fleeting, ephemeral truths As to composition, weight, Significance of aromas Precision and remain La clé du succès And yet, Middling amongst these Quantities of victory, the variable, The individual, whose own mark Shall define that meticulously crafted Breeze of leaves, mosses, and tree bark Based in such mutability, Shelley himself Might wonder why it is These artistes de parfum Create as they do.

16

I A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus! A departure from all terrestiality Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us Also, we too must be of the same make And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber Allowed to their subversive candor, All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage Across the peninsular pathways S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground, Vous must aggregate our conscious thought Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory. II Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest, Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men, By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices, Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs. By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose, Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat. Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy But that of the tide Being self-effacing, masochistic, Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of Both, Playing as ********** and as subservient III Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ****** Calmed by the liquid of our ***** ***** Charging forth as we Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter Callously, for you, our gilded monarch Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they Cannot comprehend or fathom what they Cannot see. IV Ceaseless now the charges Come further upon the front Crashing 'gainst the openings of each Clangor and madness Coalesce to form death Dripping anew with sanguine libations Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country Dionysian warriors return, Desire forming their mental undulations Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the Entirety of their selves. V From carnal conquest they rejoice, Flaunting the destruction they wrought Flinging husks of women about the room, Foisting these shells on other patriarchs Given no choice, they return to fields of battle Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh. VI Hellish, infernal is their presence Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows Hastened to madness by infinity Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators How proud they are, the Old Gods, Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture. VII Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes Iconoclasts to their own ideals Idyllic in their self-mockery. Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict Jettisoning armaments in the process, their Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits. Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries. Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death, Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a Kleptocracy of life. VIII Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle, Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue. Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife, Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture. IX Now broken with regret and shame they collapse Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth, Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them. Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs, Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective. X Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound Oafish sockets containing them like marbles Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant, Pacified only by the removal of sentience. Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit. Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale, Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them. XI Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies, Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity Repressed by its own intent Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies Strung up like scattered marionettes Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony. XII To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to Transgress the mortal plane Torturous paradox! Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more Traducer of the human condition Tragedy is loosed at thy whim Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed. XIII Undulating by the beckoning of the wind, Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms Visceral is the movement of the procession, Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero. Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict, Wanting nothing more than solace eternal. XIV Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these Xoana, false representations of humanity. Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery. Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight. XV Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls, Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand, Yet slowly it turns its back upon them, Xenophanes mocks from his post, Wailing, they fall Velocity increasing infinitely, Until they see no more the lustrous light Trapped eternally in dark Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish Questioning existence. Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise Now to them denied for eternity. Mephisto remains, their only companion, Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now Jabbed and pummeled to death. In this state of perpetual umbra Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment, Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once Forgotten but now reattained, and En masse, the group instantly Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return Before the open sun, to bear themselves Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC

blair-griffith

I-XV

I A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus! A departure from all terrestiality Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us Also, we too must be of the same make And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber Allowed to their subversive candor, All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage Across the peninsular pathways S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground, Vous must aggregate our conscious thought Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory. II Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest, Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men, By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices, Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs. By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose, Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat. Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy But that of the tide Being self-effacing, masochistic, Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of Both, Playing as ********** and as subservient III Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ****** Calmed by the liquid of our ***** ***** Charging forth as we Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter Callously, for you, our gilded monarch Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they Cannot comprehend or fathom what they Cannot see. IV Ceaseless now the charges Come further upon the front Crashing 'gainst the openings of each Clangor and madness Coalesce to form death Dripping anew with sanguine libations Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country Dionysian warriors return, Desire forming their mental undulations Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the Entirety of their selves. V From carnal conquest they rejoice, Flaunting the destruction they wrought Flinging husks of women about the room, Foisting these shells on other patriarchs Given no choice, they return to fields of battle Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh. VI Hellish, infernal is their presence Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows Hastened to madness by infinity Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators How proud they are, the Old Gods, Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture. VII Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes Iconoclasts to their own ideals Idyllic in their self-mockery. Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict Jettisoning armaments in the process, their Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits. Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries. Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death, Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a Kleptocracy of life. VIII Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle, Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue. Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife, Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture. IX Now broken with regret and shame they collapse Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth, Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them. Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs, Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective. X Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound Oafish sockets containing them like marbles Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant, Pacified only by the removal of sentience. Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit. Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale, Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them. XI Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies, Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity Repressed by its own intent Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies Strung up like scattered marionettes Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony. XII To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to Transgress the mortal plane Torturous paradox! Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more Traducer of the human condition Tragedy is loosed at thy whim Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed. XIII Undulating by the beckoning of the wind, Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms Visceral is the movement of the procession, Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero. Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict, Wanting nothing more than solace eternal. XIV Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these Xoana, false representations of humanity. Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery. Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight. XV Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls, Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand, Yet slowly it turns its back upon them, Xenophanes mocks from his post, Wailing, they fall Velocity increasing infinitely, Until they see no more the lustrous light Trapped eternally in dark Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish Questioning existence. Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise Now to them denied for eternity. Mephisto remains, their only companion, Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now Jabbed and pummeled to death. In this state of perpetual umbra Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment, Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once Forgotten but now reattained, and En masse, the group instantly Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return Before the open sun, to bear themselves Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

172

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls, Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand, Yet slowly it turns its back upon them, Xenophanes mocks from his post, Wailing, they fall Velocity increasing infinitely, Until they see no more the lustrous light Trapped eternally in dark Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish Questioning existence. Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise Now to them denied for eternity. Mephisto remains, their only companion, Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now Jabbed and pummeled to death. In this state of perpetual umbra Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment, Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once Forgotten but now reattained, and En masse, the group instantly Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return Before the open sun, to bear themselves Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC

blair-griffith

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls, Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand, Yet slowly it turns its back upon them, Xenophanes mocks from his post, Wailing, they fall Velocity increasing infinitely, Until they see no more the lustrous light Trapped eternally in dark Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish Questioning existence. Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise Now to them denied for eternity. Mephisto remains, their only companion, Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now Jabbed and pummeled to death. In this state of perpetual umbra Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment, Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once Forgotten but now reattained, and En masse, the group instantly Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return Before the open sun, to bear themselves Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

27

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these Xoana, false representations of humanity. Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery. Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC

blair-griffith

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these Xoana, false representations of humanity. Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery. Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

7

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind, Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms Visceral is the movement of the procession, Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero. Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict, Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC

blair-griffith

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind, Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms Visceral is the movement of the procession, Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero. Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict, Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

12

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to Transgress the mortal plane Torturous paradox! Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more Traducer of the human condition Tragedy is loosed at thy whim Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC

blair-griffith

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to Transgress the mortal plane Torturous paradox! Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more Traducer of the human condition Tragedy is loosed at thy whim Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

8

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies, Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity Repressed by its own intent Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies Strung up like scattered marionettes Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

0

May 7, 2012

May 7, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC

blair-griffith

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies, Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity Repressed by its own intent Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies Strung up like scattered marionettes Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

7