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Rounding the corner, thoughts drift of blankness
...eruption of rifles seven hundred strong
Rent with lead, the chunks of meat separate from your bone
Perforate summarily, your quasi-human frame
Resembling a twisted, sanguine joke with a living past
Overtones of psychic death
Even after they interred the limed and blackened
Corpses two meters below our feet
The choke of rot could still knock you down
...as dense as a purple, wormy wind
Overtones of psychic death, marked for certain expiration
Exponential instinct to flee, lurid doom hallucination
Absent daily train commute
Half consciously floating through the motions
...with stacatto bursts, flesh is punched away
In a rain of meaty marinade

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