corpses piled high, bloody
walls, silencer pistols, muddy
waters mixed with soot, ash, garbage—
I feel a queasy sense in
my guts (& bowels, to be real)
of degradation, forced to kneel
& kiss the grinding wheel's spin—
The Tower's very spirit
is ancient as severed heads,
abandoned marriage beds,
a flatted-fifth tune: hear it,
be reminded that music
must continue even here,
must leak out, tunes of fear
& loathing, sing the collapsed Muse's
hymn to the compelling lurid,
& if it seems too desperate,
lightning striking your wedlock'd
heart, limp falling bodies, torrid
fires going up your behind,
never you mind, this voyage,
no matter how rank, annoying,
can only give you back a strengthened mind.
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