Discretion is the Battered Pal of Pallor

By JOE PRYCE

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Most wearying unto a menaced psyche is the mountain-massive weaponry
Disponible at will by wild and witchy winter, savagely subverting
Wonted paradigms, quite sans merci when dealing dawn's sadique barrage.

Then savage cyborgs storm enfeebled posts by massed ballista pulverized;
Fierce flames then turn our woodlands into wastelands,
Making devastation ineluctable of earth without,
And morphing slender sorrows into anguish inexpugnable within,
Until survivors, true-bred batteries of biped bovines,
Mutate into pain-machines, self-starting, never-failing, quite baroque.

The icy warlords sluice their satin-black rank-reeking fluids in our faces,
Whilst technicians hatch out minatory melancholia's black curs
To break a bone or two or munch a brainbox clean in mopping up,
And that's to be a broad and wasting wake since every mad dog bites.

Soon I am made of madness, disciplined and dulled,
But my guest lodger is named madness nonetheless,
And I must bear his name in mind lest he put me in chains. Amen.