by Nick Gisburne
Our cities crushed, we wage a psychic war,
With energies directed at the soul.
Immoral weapons none have faced before
Corrupt the mind, but leave the body whole.
Their children, as the weakest, suffer first,
Erratic, angry, squealing sacks of skin.
Young hearts expand, enraged, to break, or burst,
As grinding waves of mania begin.
New frequencies divest the old of joy.
A terrifying silence ends their lives.
The women struggle, screaming, to destroy
The demons in their flesh, with flashing knives.
We send no pulse to plague the men at all.
They jump, despairing, from the highest wall.
