carcass
Mister Brightside
the
precinct
of
flies
and
vultures
mastery
of
this
perfect
stillness
that
takes
the
breath
away
and
does
not
give
it
back
.
machinery
breaking
down
buildings collapsing
wind
whistling
through
unoccupied
bones
empty
sockets
pondering
the
infinite
dead
branches
like
bony
fingers
clutching
at
the
indifferent
sky
i
am
a
wasteland
050211
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from