what masks we wear

you hear my shouting

sibylline and sibilant

made of moving things

we fought, we fight

and still will fight

but death is gone

from our fingers

and hell from our hands

see, see, the cutless

knives

pierced and punctured

lacerated

ragged, raging

broken in splendor

we are the gods

of the underworld

the soiled divinities

olympus in the slums