This is Jockel Podcast number one thirty six with echo Charles and me Jockel

Willink. Good evening echo. Good evening.

Who are these? Why sit they hear in twilight?

Wherefore rock they purgatoryle shadows drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish

bearing teeth that lear like skulls teeth wicked.

Stroke on stroke of pain.

But what slow panic gouged these chasms round their fredded sockets?

Ever from their hair and through their hands palms misery swelters?

Surely we have perished sleeping and walk in hell.

But who these hellish?

These are men whose minds the dead have ravished.

Memory fingers in their hair of murders, multitudinous murders they once witnessed.

Waiting slews 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 rucks too thick for these men's extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented back into their brains.

Because on their sense sunlight seems a blood smear. Night comes blood black dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds a fresh.

Thus their heads wear this hilarious hideous awful falseness of set smiling corpses.

Thus their hands are plucking at each other picking out rope-houts of their scourging.

Snatching after us who smote them, brother, powing us who dealt them war and madness.

And that is a poem.

It's a poem called Mental Cases.

And it's a poem that was written by Wilfred Owen.

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