Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I support the troops.
I bought them a gun.
I support the war.
They started it.
Their fault,
not mine.

Reversible irreversible.
Histories of a history.
Speeches of speeches.
Beastly apparitions at dawn.
Soil is laughing, gun cocked,
the gentle breeze of it.

a warrior's dream
or maybe a nightmare
anything to prevent
those memories from
recurring time after time
those sounds they scream
as another life drowns
in the explosions those
goddamn explosions
that presidents never hear
isolated in their padded rooms
away from the anguish
the lost loves and dead ones
whose parts are strewn across
battlefields that will never bear roses

i puke fear and weep blood
with my arms outstretched
reaching grasping needing
something... just something
to remove me from this ...
this.... this.... that i never
asked for and yet here i am
in acute desperation twisting
life into phantasmagorical shapes
that come from within my mind
shattered from all these wars
that never end but only pause
as warriors rest up and clean
their guns for the next battle
immune to criticism and pleadings
from all those innocents that only
want to be left to love and live
... is it too much to ask for?

Yes. The ones who send us to our destruction (and theirs) in the name of some glorified mind-clot or another never fully bear witness to the consequences. And it seems we will never quite call each other on it.

Awestruck, Cecil.. Thanks much, my friend.

provocative and humourous