In laborious anguish, cries that cracked the earth
window panes which shook with bellowed pains
Remus and Romulus, Abel and Cain given birth
Solomon, split us in twain
keep the whole, lose the attached brain

I welcome the poison into my life
it knocks and I let it in
and I ***** my guts as they unspool from my mouth
o'er the blade of my knife
soaked in the despair of eternal night that has yet to begin
I embrace the arms of ******, the hold of mutilation
arms of Hades take me away from the journey and to the destination
they whisper and mutter as he passes by there's the one with the open neck
who carries a dead soul on his shoulder
they don't know, those crows, whose lips for feed they peck
as our eyes roll over

A fine upstanding gentleman, my brother himself presents
with blood reeking on his hands, my brother himself resents
a killer with no intentions, ambitions, no control he does not relent
the finest necromancy combined a whole soul with the partial,
they cut the head off and preserved it in a jar, the baby's skull
his eyes open, turning in viscous liquids, tracking them wherever they are
an empty vessel for the monger who takes over, the wound beneath the scar
there is a dead man walking, being carried in the chest of an exiled noble
a dead man who longs for rest, who never chose to live
a ghost that haunts this disfigured puppet, strangling on the reins he gives

Now make your flesh dance!
Raise hairs, buds of skin, and a scimitar high!
If you will not discover your past,
your superstition will be your undoing and you will die
fall upon your sword at last,
let me out,
the jar tips over, the baby's head cries
let me out!
A man seemingly impales himself in a fit of madness
cursed by voices and murderous streaks of violence
he leaves only a stench in the street behind-
though finally, a being cursed to be trapped inside returns to its own mind
only to occupy a severed head that by sick magick managed to survive
and is to this day, millennia later, on a necromancer's shelf, in a jar, being kept alive.

How many miles warp the landscape?
She sits in the nook by her window, wondering
etching a portrait of the bounty to come
the rows of stalks, now she is of age
that she will enter the grain silo
her soul is endeared, there is no fear
they begin the harvest before dawn tomorrow

There is peace like she has never felt before,
knowing her destiny is to give back to the earth
and she is ready to do this and more
but in the darkness, the dead of night
outside her bedroom a faint flash of light
the oldest brother comes, his face sullen and white
he's determined to take her away,
he won't let her have this day
in the darkness, the dead of night
she strikes him, he's jealous he wasn't chosen
he turns heel in flight
but there is no escape, father awaits
with mother, brothers, sisters, by his side
"It is time." His penetrating glare, silver eyed
"You will rid your sister of this husk."  Words that strip him naked of his pride

Father's false leg is silent against the floorboards
across the fields the dozens gather
they follow the ascendant light of the son, hushed, no words
the only spark of life is the cigar father puffs, faced with these silo fumes, he too would rather-
she bolts across the catwalk and disrobes in preparation
his torch extinguished, he dives to stop her embracing annihilation
and all is too dark to see, too quiet to hear, she falls for seconds towards the surface of the grain
he lays, face down, hand extended with her night dress clutched in his fist
she lays on her back, impacted on the crust and broken inside and out, every breath is a feverish pain
she needs to sink, if she doesn't she will have done this all only for the maize
long after he should have gone, he looks down at her and stays
her fingertips claw gently at the deepest crack, she's determined to get back

Her legs protruding outward
spine broken, ribs stabbing hard inward
her skull broken, blood leaking over
bowels pierced, organs exploded, it's all over
not one tear, no weakness enters here
she exhales with force, no fear
and pushes herself into the abyss
with her dying breath, into the clear
the others ascend, sensing the fatality
only then do they hear
she's engulfed in the grain, only then do they see
she's screaming in pain, still alive, as she blesses the corn
all the way down, her journey continues, they open the auger
drain her through, collect the limbs and flesh rended, one eye sunken into her head, one shot with unbridled rage and scorn
never had anyone survived, many musclebound mortals
many agile men had walked the grain
hundreds have made the sacrifice,
they carry what is left of her off into the night
father places his hand on his oldest son

Clouds in the distance, thunder and lightning
no rain upon them, father puts his cigar out in the son's face
burning the bridge of his nose until it looks as out of place
as the deep scars and rings under either eye
he snatches the dress from his fist, and declares this lie
"Two more of us have become who they were, you see he never sleeps now and why?
For he journeys through the underworld every night, with his fire alight to guide us through when we die.
My Nocturnal Son."

From a window the young sister watches
forgotten, connected to machines as years wither
she sees her brother take them to the silo
her face turned forever towards the window
she watches as even the stars lose their glow
and the dead join her in presence
as they have yesterday, will today and tomorrow.

December, nineteen sixty three
the frost collects in the beards of the homeless
who weep tears of defeat; life seems hopeless
Philadelphia
bundled under blankets of snow
shivering and miserable they line the streets
few of them sleep, with nowhere to go
they borrow time to live, three starve for every one who eats
poverty and frail bones, behind their eyes they are hollow

Venture to their jungles, see their thin and decaying forms
shuffling as if their ankles are in chains, food slow enough for the worms
before they die their wretched lives waste away, compassion transforms
they chip at this glacier to reach the hearts and minds inside, yet the blizzard never warms
you strangers never warm; they were never warned
wringing a cheesecloth over an old mug
a belly full of fire to liven up the poor man
ours was just fifteen when he caught the bug
strained through a sock straight from a tin can

Oh no, look who came back with the Sterno-Inferno
give me a swig, give me sight, bring on the Canned Heat
knock you through the brig, won't even put up no fight, swept right off of my feet
loopy and sappy, it'll make you feel happy
it's quicker, hotter, and easier too
if you was where we was, what would you do?

He's drinking, and drinking, but it's not going away
in one month they lost a person for every day
thirty one deaths
thirty one deaths!
Thirty one deaths
it seems sometimes like he's the only one who can't forget
and as he exhales into his interlaced fingers
he can't see the blood on his hands, but the scent of iron lingers
young and alone, he staggers through winter like wet cement
with a pain pushing on his kidney like a broken bone that won't relent
his needs come back and haunt him, yet
direction is the one thing in life he could never find
now his hands guide him through a picture in his mind
swearing, crying, I am blind!

It was the perfect irony
when the sidewalks cleared of ice
and the sun shone down, now they could see
they wanted to go outside when it was nice,
but for the loss of many,
when they found his body
struck by a shovel clearing a path
on his side curled in a ball,
they became numbers to his statistic, indifferent and evil math
more witnesses than family, all their eyes would fall
that's the cruel nature, he died by a stoop and no one saw or heard his call
when he was discovered, he was made an example to them all
on the dangers of drinking methanol.