| PSALM OF THE ANGER |
| I | Because outside the ambulances howl at the dogs |
| II | Because the typist is forced to eat her own fingers |
| III | Because I come wrapped in cellophane and stamped with a blue number |
| IV | Because brain-damage leaves a little trail of wildflowers |
| V | Because we speak to each other only through a wire grille and our time is up |
| VI | Because even the forests are made to tell lies |
| VII | I want to crawl into the street soaked with burning oil |
| VIII | I want to smash clocks in my teeth and dig graves with my fingernails |
| IX | I want to spit out the pin of a grenade like a plumstone |
| X | I want to splatter the maps in the boardroom with bloody continents |
| XI | I want my screaming to dissolve cartilage |
| XII | I want my children's bodies to grow thick black fur |
| Adam Cornford, Processed World, issue 2 |
