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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