I-XV

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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