The battle was weeks of hell, baskets of mortar
dropped on a frozen rope, onto my friends trapped
with nothing to win, they are happy now
rendered headless, chopping off what we could
to drop into the sea, we are war machine screaming
merciless mantras, passing a chalice
boozy of humor, laughing with satan
at the suffering fireworks, burn the wound making
cauterized ruination, I fear sepsis
taking hold, for I will die before its done.
Pandemonium marketplace setups
selling soldiers to the bidder, elevated not
though square dealing on the level
with rules to follow, and malice aforethought
you understand, for a known game is just
talk of death to traitors and spies
wearing suits, costuming a new hell
in tatters as death in the mirror
again, the children are hungry
but nothing grows anymore period.
A cruel, merciless decision we made,
admittedly, to stand apart from fury
with sickly cowardice we turn away,
though we chastise ourselves and each other
for acting likewise, because flagellation feels
good when we use words, joy is diminishing
words we don’t like to use in public
but we still do, for wouldn’t you
if you had esteem waiting, but you don’t
because you only serve, like a lever.
Check marks, first thing is the first,
a nice fruity phosphate, Mountain Due
Condition Blue or something, tasting love
is sweet sunshine and comfort costs
money in peacetime, my arms rendered
useless but to pull a lever, push a lunger
off the edge, slipping into a dragon chase,
or maybe it’s a nightmare, but waking
in a box is a bad omen, I’ve heard.
Large in charge of the floor, big shot
all of a sudden, struggling still up against
a whiteboard colored in bullshit,
first buy the bonds, afterwards pay the piper
for the tolls that number sixteen
more than before, on the same street
all of a sudden, knowing there’s not a place
we could afford uptown, anyway
hunting a point out, precisely placed
because you might have just one chance.
Voltaire and Camus came together
to work on “All Quiet,” or whatever
it will be called, and directed by Dickens
with Gandhi producing, De Sade scripting
the tale of a lonely stable-boy in love
with a maiden of the conquered people,
but alas he is gutshot, and dies alone
in the dark, no dry eyes, best picture
contender at least, that’s for sure.
I feel like Django, dragging a coffin behind me
filled with my trespasses, and the yelping
victim wails that fell on deaf ears echo
in the night, haunting things I’ve done
rest in the unknown enemy’s moving tomb,
they would’ve done me as I did them,
but still they glare with hole eyes, sucking portals
sucking to a world of shit, so forever good night.
I wrote a book called “Push the Chips”
detailing my fall and rise, it was a whitewash
snow job poorly detailed emotional history,
just as devotees rise and shout praises
out of tune, paper away the detritus
pushing to next, and gearing up is the key
with a spiked helmet and chains,
you gotta mash the allies, tell no one
what you’ve done, it is a horror.
The movie’s have changed, and none remain
better then ever, though history clones are
all the rage bubbling, they disappoint
with cookie-cutter mechanics and terra cotta
characters, so open the door and pull ideas
off of the chaff pile, we will shield them
with complacency, I have to write
my new novel, the one to lift them up
by the heart, which is all there is.
The first time I attempted suicide
I woke up in the hospital, zippered
into my bed, joining rage and regret
in a blender, pushing pulse over again,
smearing pain and scrawling hate
on the wall, they started marking milestones
after a time, now not even a walker
with me, the sad kids get some hope.
This is my resignation not from chiefs
of executive office, in them a poison
growing from their heart through their pores,
making them seem soupy, and red
of brick and beet and tomato, but we know
what it really is, representing an ending
for everyone, I move to my forest cabin,
shut off, my kids won’t talk to me at all
now, maybe they’ll never, but I’m finally free.
The court calls me Notnow Neverwas
and they laugh, when I enter or leave,
they say it through a cone, long and loud
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and girls!”
then they lower the boom, pointing to me
a smiling finger, no, they cackle grimly
without humor, but they don’t even know
no one’s laughing, either and I have a knife
behind my back, time for some justice.