Cerberus suggests a sinful aesthetic:
salacious suggestions
amid incinerative incitations,
screaming "Anarchy!" in shallow-minded tones.
Oh, the frothing fiends that our forefathers feared:
they've emerged from the shadows
and dropped their masks
and now eagerly rush
towards devious tasks.
Bullets let fly:
more small, bloodied hands
lay still on the pavement.
Grand masses of currency
fuel isolation
and fuel the insurgency.
And as growing pains are injected
into our weakening lifeblood,
we take on more willingly
our addiction to anger:
an anarchic scream to drown out
the pained scream.
All tortures end
in acquittal
or death.
And the decision draws near
as to which end we'll get.