a war poem

lately i really dislike war-fair.
as in, the vietnam war,
the Franco-Prussian war,
these fucking depraved war video games
being played every minute of the day by
millions and millions of
twitching zombie adolescents
who suspect not at all that they're being trained....
unpatriotically i dislike
each of the heralded
and consecrated World Wars,
and the current, endless, mainly Race-war being
waged against the Demon, Terrizm,
which warplan was cleverly authored
down in whitest Hell by a pale, obese, drunken Beelzebub
who snorts top-grade, Intelligence Agency cocaine all day with no ill effects,
and sucks the marrow of little catholic boys, for snacks.



it's just that i can sit in front of the tele-vision
and practically
smell the burning human skin,
and hear the howls
of hatred and pain of the mothers, brothers, and fathers
of the folks needlessly blown to
messes of torn tissue and split organs
and bones, and spines removed from the body partly,
and heads rolled into the gutters because
That is what heads do, being round.

you see, the neck is a soft, pliable region,
a weak point:
incidental beheadings
are common when NATO or Pol Pot or
Adolph Hitler or the satanic coke cartels arrive to
enforce Order, or support the faction of their choice
while amassing grotesque profits,
naturally, or otherwise.

war used to not bother me much.
nobody was bombing my city or poisoning my crops,
or using cancerous nuclear slag metals
in the bullets of the mounted machine guns
which come attached to the armored locusts
called Chinooks and Apaches,
and A-1O Warthogs,
when they paid me a tax-funded visit.



war for me used to be something to protest,
not get physically ill and weep over,
not to drive me into public like
an unwilling, cranky mule
because i look around and can't seem to find any
public disgust or outrage
at the homicidal folly
we're all engaged in,
every single one of us
that pays taxes and relaxes
and gives a slave's contribution
to the slaughter, while
working on our core.

We could do with fewer smart phones
built on the backs of smashed, diseased nations and starved people,
we could do with more curious consumers
who love themselves less.
we could do with a bit of romance that is not only sex.
and the avoidance of loneliness and boredom.
we can do much much better than this:



forgive me, for i have grinned
and borne it too long.
and i'm so tired of the hurricane Irene coverage,
the way we scurry to our own
fatbellied hysterias
when we can't catch a Gaddafi quick enough.

we couldn't catch bin Laden, we couldn't
catch the clap,
the war is waged by everyone, it's
sitting in your lap.