The euthanized fireworks no long point skywards so now I curate their demise, knowing into which chemistry they did fail, and whisper more lies of their hallowed hubris. No sky torn allegories shall fly, into the face of the uncharted, from the whistling backyards, amidst the median darkness, whilst those drying, desiccated, drunks understand the modest steel of graven lips, and flavour drowns where pleasure falls, amongst such perfidy. Squalling in our gardens the fox draws tight his curtain of blood against this human blight and even the trees will hide in fear from those men walking their perverse erections, oiled and cocked, in public.