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(Built with) parts from those who retch & writhe,

The fleshy trumpets blare their breathing cry.

A tone unheard, a vibration unfelt:

Behold the bio-mechanical choir of the vocal array!

Within a case so long and deep,

(The) oozing horns can barely be seen.

(Nor can they be heard, not in the classical sense.)

Encased by non-euclidean glass, that pulls and twists the eye.

An ensanguined prism pool, tank of acoustic hemorrhaging.

(As the) gears underneath turn it emits (the) subsonic sob (of its donors.)

All in arrhythmic, pulsing beats.

(The) unutterable wonder of the Psylent Sound.

A dredging of the abyssal wail.

Their throats were plucked like petals and their tissues darkly harvested .

(Spoils of the Auto-Ototoxic.)

Terrors from beneath sound itself, heralds of the inconversable.

Horrors for the now-throatless choir, a disfigurement irreversible.

A curtained hand always on the crank, spinning the infernal moans.

Criers of the bleak, the wandering voice without a home.

Endless rows of towering horns, spitting blood and sound.

Powered by the forceful heave, whose gears are ever-wound.

Fear the Auto-Ototoxic cry, fear the Psylent Sound.

Fear the Auto-Ototoxic cry, fear the Psylent Sound.