The guts of men writhe like landed eels,

they spill as if they never end.

 

Brains like cod roe and fat

wrapped in paper, torn apart.

 

A tooth, an eye and half a scalp.

An ear inside a mouth, its tongue split Scarlet blue.

 

And now, where metal forged its deadly path

beneath the forests open wound, sunlight feasts with flies.

 

The living men so nearly dead,

sitting on the dappled ground, smoke with bloody hands that shake.

 

Not one that sits and smokes and shakes can feel his beating heart,

yet inside each broken soul are all the parts that maketh man.