Classics in the Key of Post-Hardcore

Volume 1

These twelve poems span four centuries and one shared condition: the things people carry when the world offers no explanation and no relief.

Some carry war. Owen watched a man drown in poison gas; Coleridge watched a mariner carry a dead bird around his neck for a thoughtless killing. In the modernized versions, one soldier watches a friend die from an IED, and one driver looks at a phone for three seconds and kills a stranger. The guilt is the same. The weight is the same. The bird never comes off.

Some carry grief that the world refuses to acknowledge. Tennyson stood still while the tide kept breaking. Dickinson felt her own mind hold a funeral for itself. Hardy begged for a cruel God — anyone in charge — and got silence. These songs put those feelings in a hallway where the mail still arrives addressed to your dead daughter, in a skull where the floor gives out, in an empty room where no one has ever been listening.

Some carry isolation. Eliot’s Prufrock couldn’t speak to anyone at a party in 1915. Nashe watched the plague take everyone equally in 1592. In these versions, one man scrolls through birthday parties he wasn’t invited to at 2 AM, and a billionaire, a doctor, and a kid who followed every rule all die on ventilators. The distance between centuries collapses when the feeling is the same.

And some carry violence — the kind that hides in silence. Byron described an army alive in one stanza and dead in the next without showing the killing. Browning locked you inside a murderer’s calm logic. Shelley named the men who ordered a massacre. Kipling’s soldier watched the man he abused die saving his life. These songs rebuild those same structures around a school shooting, a woman who trusted every hand laid on her, three people destroyed by the systems meant to protect them, and a neighbor who never learned the name of the man who saved his daughter.

Eliot’s Waste Land held all of it — disconnected voices speaking from inside a world that kept functioning after it stopped making sense. That song does the same thing across four American disasters, four people going through the motions while everything breaks around them.

Twelve poems. Four centuries. The same machines, rebuilt with modern parts.

The Songs
The Old Lie
from “Dulce et Decorum Est” — Wilfred Owen, 1920
Owen watched a man drown in poison gas in 1917 and dared anyone to repeat the lie that it is sweet and fitting to die for your country. This song watches a man choke to death from an IED ten feet away, and screams the same dare.
The Floor Gave Out
from “I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain” — Emily Dickinson, 1861
Dickinson described a mental breakdown as a funeral inside her head — mourners treading, a drum beating, a plank in reason breaking. This song describes the same collapse: footsteps grinding grooves into the brain, a floor giving out, and falling into nothing.
Same As Everyone
from “A Litany in Time of Plague” — Thomas Nashe, 1592
Nashe cycled through wealth, beauty, strength, and wit — none could stop the plague. This song cycles through a billionaire, an influencer, a firefighter, a doctor, and a kid who followed every rule. They all died on ventilators. Same as everyone.
The Weight of Her Hand
from “Break, Break, Break” — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1842
Tennyson watched the world keep moving while he stood frozen in grief. This song is a father standing in a hallway while the mailman leaves a package with his dead daughter's name still on the label.
And God Did Nothing
from “Porphyria’s Lover” — Robert Browning, 1836
Browning's poem traps you inside a murderer's calm logic. This song flips it to the victim's perspective — a woman who came home, put the kettle on, and trusted every hand he ever laid on her.
Nothing Would Come Out
from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” — T.S. Eliot, 1915
Prufrock measured his life in coffee spoons and couldn't speak to anyone at a party. This song measures it in identical midnights, scrolling through birthday parties he wasn't invited to at 2 AM.
Three Seconds
from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798
The Ancient Mariner killed an albatross for no reason and carried it around his neck forever. This song is about looking at a phone for three seconds, killing a stranger, and carrying the phone in your pocket every day.
Marcus Has My Pen
from “The Destruction of Sennacherib” — Lord Byron, 1815
Byron showed an army alive in one stanza and dead in the next, never describing the killing. This song does the same thing with a school shooting. The violence lives in the gap between verses.
Jesús
from “Gunga Din” — Rudyard Kipling, 1890
Kipling’s soldier abused his water carrier, watched him die saving his life, and confessed he was the better man. This song is a homeowner who never learned the name of the undocumented worker on his street — until the worker saved his daughter’s life and was deported for being seen.
Followed Every Rule
from “The Mask of Anarchy” — Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1819
Shelley named the officials who ordered a massacre and called them Murder, Fraud, and Hypocrisy. This song names three ordinary people — a teacher, a protester, a man who called 911 — who followed every rule and were destroyed by the institutions that were supposed to protect them.
None of It Was Real
from “The Waste Land” — T.S. Eliot, 1922
Eliot built a 434-line poem out of disconnected voices speaking from inside a world that kept functioning after it stopped making sense. This song uses the same anthology structure across four American disasters — 9/11, Katrina, Deepwater Horizon, Pulse — four people who kept going through the motions while the world broke around them.
There Was Never Anyone There
from “Hap” — Thomas Hardy, 1866
Hardy said if a cruel God looked down and laughed at his suffering, he could endure it — at least someone would be in charge. But there is no God. Suffering is random chance. This song watches the news, sees the same randomness everywhere, and screams into an empty room where no one has ever been listening.