Phony Soldiers (for Rush)

[mnaz]

This generation can't even declare war properly,
as in, bourbon neat to bomb stout lager, fat pork jowls,
gray methane bloat, heaving sensibility and rumblin' folds.
The Politburo had 'em too, fat red jowls of uranium sludge.
When tonnage piles up and tabs start to hemmorhage,
I swear by the prophet's profit, his renovated history.
I swear by his cliff-bound train without brakes.
I swear by His party rhetoric and jigglin' jowls.
The whole place is run by 'em.

It started in '51, on the prophet's long trip west.
He carved up the tribe, drank rotten buffalo rain.
It started in '71, on some red jungle spin fuck ritual,
hell fire Baptists awash in convulsed orange fingers,
kissed by a few thousand degrees of freedom.
It started in '45, father, son and wholly a ghost,
fused demon glass and bright toxic sand on His breath.
The Trinity, a perfect crater blown through the light,
a perfect holy cancer, full circle.

The world is flat again, like the hood of a '72 Plymouth Fury,
thrust into neighboring solar systems, headlight sprung,
by the olive dim ghost liquor of a shifting desert moon,
elbow room enough for death squads and bone yards.
Yet the odd, or even soldier may lapse momentarily,
question his status as a random number generator,
as fuel, as propulsion for some strange vector.
"Phonies, all of them!" heaves Rush,
jowls aflame.


note: a few cuts, here & there...

[Lightning Rod]

beautifully written, mnaz
brisk, zany, pithy
there has to be an emoticon for 'jowls aflame'

[mnaz]

thanks L Rod...

I never know how these things will end up...

Just another two-fisted fat angry white guy, red-jowled bloated budget, manifest destiny slaughterin', chain reactin' godhead, drunk on a desert moon metal graveyard sorta thing, as it turns out...

What a mess...