Tuur Verheyde

Dies Irae

by: Tuur Verheyde

In a brightly padded Bedlam Tethered to late September Heimdall leads me To Autumn’s opening dance.

Kim and Donald are playing Cold War 2, but I’ve got trenches on the brain. A dieselpunk daydream wakes me humming War Poetry while lining Jazz with Trip hop, cutting it with retro rumble and ghastly futurism;

Rusty robots walking to the Somne. Airships shoving clouds aside. A grim pastoral paints itself; Beneath crumbling gothic arches a green fog slouches across the bed of mire and maroon.

Wasteland 2.0 dotted with rotting iron, cemented graves and spires as caves and shelters for shellfire and mustard storms of hail.

“Never Again” Satan must have shat himself laughing when he heard that one.