The macabre dance
Of death is performed
By three men.
To the tune
Of their master,
The great tutor
Of supreme misery
The teacher of
The obscene dream.
The blind visionary,
Leading his troupe
Onwards to the edge,
And their inevitable
And eternal return
What do you want of us, we give you blood
Over satire, our crimson heartbeats are
Bawling bassoons, our lungs pant like faulty
Bellows and our ink hands are stained with a
Weeping prophet in a globe of matches,
Tinder sticks that light with everybody
Talking at once and then stillness… Are our
Names being called in the Parisian streets?
Georges, Stephane, Bernard, Jean. Pages ripped,
All the sea sick books burnt for their own good,
Should auld acquaintance be forgot je suis
Charlie. The bells of Notre Dame will sound,
Flags will fly like a firefly because of
A pen’s power to disrupt the mouse hole.