The scabietic clouds protrude in the corridors
of the wind scanning a post-human condition
rife with wiggly worms: Grotesque creatures
skimming tombstones. A funeral within a funeral.
Death within death. A dream within a dream.
A myth within a myth. Fireflies invade the broken
lanterns. Crows puke falsettos of being. Punkness
of darkness. A cacophony of sounds. Tolls of bells.
Beats of drums; doom. Lord, how shall we hear
the shr[ill] muttering of thunder? --The voice
of revolt. The storm is about to start like a congested
lesion. --Like eruptive magma baptized on the tongue.