Mental cases. Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial
shadows, drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish, bearing teeth that leer like
skulls tongues wicked, stroke on stroke of pain, but what slow panic gouged these chasms
round their fretted sockets? Ever from their hair and through their hand palms misery swelters.
Surely we have perished, sleeping and walk hell. But who are these hellish? These are
men whose minds the dead have ravished, memory fingers in their hair of murderers, multitudinous
murderers they once witnessed, wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, treading
blood from lungs that had loved laughter. Always they must see these things and hear
them. Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, carnage incomparable, and human squander
rucked too thick for these men's extrication. Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
back into their brains because their sense, sunlight seems a blood smear. Night comes,
blood back. Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh. Thus their heads wear
this hilarious, hideous, awful falseness of set smiling corpses. Thus their hands are
plucking at each other, picking at the roped nouts of their scourging, snatching after
us who smoked them, brother. Haunting us who dealt them war and madness.
