I remember the day they tore down the towers.
Airplanes hijacked; crumbling US power.
Giant yardsticks of elegant wealth.
Slim, streamline shafts: austere obelisks.
The anchor pillars of Wall Street.
A chilling quiet fell upon the globe,
When the skies were suddenly empty.
No jet stream trails
running like a river through the clouds
on September eleventh.
As America looked up to empty skies.
From across the Atlantic, nations ran frantic on the terror level,
and in far away lands, where they rule by divide,
as the second tower plummets -
They celebrate.
A cry for revenge from heartbroken citizens;
Bin Laden the new hate figurine.
Islam the new enemy.
And while gazing into the flashing photography
images and films coming from the TV,
where hopes for thousands fell.
I acknowledge the knights; hero-hearted,
Trying to save the sheep-innocent from their title
‘Infidel.’
And with steel-clad courage
they fight through the metal, debris damage
of the rubble-buried masses.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Remember them
Remember the hundred thousand;
Remember the buried numbers
Those not broadcast amongst our
Airwaves with the daily intel
About UK death tolls and
Environmental disaster.
And in
The green pastures of European fields,
Rows of white stone lined in no
Rank or file, with the unnamed tombs
Etched with a christian cross of
Rememberance;
And we remember them; but in
Doing so, blinded by
Patriotism over humanism
we don’t remember the
Civilians that got caught in
Way of conflict; by accident.
The merely statistical.
A figure that will in be written
In a textbook for the future
History lessons.
Remember the hundred thousand.
Remember the buried numbers.
Remember the buried numbers
Those not broadcast amongst our
Airwaves with the daily intel
About UK death tolls and
Environmental disaster.
And in
The green pastures of European fields,
Rows of white stone lined in no
Rank or file, with the unnamed tombs
Etched with a christian cross of
Rememberance;
And we remember them; but in
Doing so, blinded by
Patriotism over humanism
we don’t remember the
Civilians that got caught in
Way of conflict; by accident.
The merely statistical.
A figure that will in be written
In a textbook for the future
History lessons.
Remember the hundred thousand.
Remember the buried numbers.
Mother, put the world to bed
The planes are steadfast on the runways because nature has retaliated again and now
Its raining ash across Europe. Holding countries hostage. Airport’s backlogged with claustrophobic passengers.
Mankind’s mother can be the most brutal enemy; We at war with each other and
She at war with us; and only when she attacks, do we see.
She blows gales so strong; cities wiped clean of civilisation, eradicating lives as a dirty stain; tornado whirlwinds hoovering up houses and hospitals, leaving broken families and street crime. The ground can shake and crumble into feeble dust, as she shakes up Gods etch-a-sketch, like a furious child.
Sometimes we are punished with a great wave. Extending the oceans.
Drowning villages. Or the throwing of fatal bombs
in the form of volcanic lava that
leak over the earth like hot wax, drying to stone.
She can set the forests alight
burning fires across countries too hot to be relieved of furious flames.
Turning the sky black with soot.
And as we fight her with endurance we struggle to understand
That we always lose against her battle. Her power
Controlling a global human balance that we can’t even
Nuke and destroy.
So when the next day breaks will our children be awoken
to the thunderous screams and lashes of lightening
of Mother-Earth?
Will they acknowledge the stampede like the sound
of her heart as it pulses through her rivers and oceans
And will we understand why she takes
So many lives for her own in the sacrifice of her beauty.
When she just wants us to see
That we have mutilated her for centuries.
Its raining ash across Europe. Holding countries hostage. Airport’s backlogged with claustrophobic passengers.
Mankind’s mother can be the most brutal enemy; We at war with each other and
She at war with us; and only when she attacks, do we see.
She blows gales so strong; cities wiped clean of civilisation, eradicating lives as a dirty stain; tornado whirlwinds hoovering up houses and hospitals, leaving broken families and street crime. The ground can shake and crumble into feeble dust, as she shakes up Gods etch-a-sketch, like a furious child.
Sometimes we are punished with a great wave. Extending the oceans.
Drowning villages. Or the throwing of fatal bombs
in the form of volcanic lava that
leak over the earth like hot wax, drying to stone.
She can set the forests alight
burning fires across countries too hot to be relieved of furious flames.
Turning the sky black with soot.
And as we fight her with endurance we struggle to understand
That we always lose against her battle. Her power
Controlling a global human balance that we can’t even
Nuke and destroy.
So when the next day breaks will our children be awoken
to the thunderous screams and lashes of lightening
of Mother-Earth?
Will they acknowledge the stampede like the sound
of her heart as it pulses through her rivers and oceans
And will we understand why she takes
So many lives for her own in the sacrifice of her beauty.
When she just wants us to see
That we have mutilated her for centuries.
Music Box (The noise)
The noise is amplifying throughout my brain;
It’s echoing and bouncing off bone skull.
4 walls encasing my mind; its closing in and I cant stop the noise.
Room is spinning and all I can hear is the screams of women and children and the
repetitive sound…
The repetitive sound…
It killed them and now its killing me.
We were supposed to patrol not fire.
Why did we fire?
Oh the noise.
The noise.
I’m tearing my hair out and I nearly slipped on a body part.
I keep seeing his eyes in the corner of the room staring out at me from the wall, as the
noise.
The noise just keeps getting louder.
Take a pill, have a nap, ignore it, ignore it - because soldiers cant have emotion.
Emotion is weakness, weakness fails to kill.
The noise is in every room, and I try to get out -
But the noise, the noise.
The noise is outside with the air force flying overhead,
The propellers whirring circular swoosh noise, the noise.
It’s a repetitive tune systematic with the audio déjà vu
causing my brain to swell static, noise.
Through the radio I can hear voices leading me up to the attic.
Roaming my house, following like a pipers tune
and its leading me up stairs, clinging banisters.
The noise, it pulls and tugs my shirt, to the sound of a music box.
I enter the attic and follow the noise, muffling and scraping
trapped inside a toy chest.
I pick it and open it but it’s stuffed full of human parts
I dig till I find it, wind it up and the tune just starts
Its playing a song, so beautiful that the room goes dark
The moon is full, I smell a funeral and the noise,
Oh the noise…
It’s echoing and bouncing off bone skull.
4 walls encasing my mind; its closing in and I cant stop the noise.
Room is spinning and all I can hear is the screams of women and children and the
repetitive sound…
The repetitive sound…
It killed them and now its killing me.
We were supposed to patrol not fire.
Why did we fire?
Oh the noise.
The noise.
I’m tearing my hair out and I nearly slipped on a body part.
I keep seeing his eyes in the corner of the room staring out at me from the wall, as the
noise.
The noise just keeps getting louder.
Take a pill, have a nap, ignore it, ignore it - because soldiers cant have emotion.
Emotion is weakness, weakness fails to kill.
The noise is in every room, and I try to get out -
But the noise, the noise.
The noise is outside with the air force flying overhead,
The propellers whirring circular swoosh noise, the noise.
It’s a repetitive tune systematic with the audio déjà vu
causing my brain to swell static, noise.
Through the radio I can hear voices leading me up to the attic.
Roaming my house, following like a pipers tune
and its leading me up stairs, clinging banisters.
The noise, it pulls and tugs my shirt, to the sound of a music box.
I enter the attic and follow the noise, muffling and scraping
trapped inside a toy chest.
I pick it and open it but it’s stuffed full of human parts
I dig till I find it, wind it up and the tune just starts
Its playing a song, so beautiful that the room goes dark
The moon is full, I smell a funeral and the noise,
Oh the noise…
Interrogation
“You are suspected of belonging to an illegal organization. Do you confess?”
I shook my head vigorously in confusion. The officer then took a sack and shoved it over my head and tied my hands behind me with a thin plastic bind, making it so tight the corner bit into the skin like claw pincers. The sack had a dirty smell, stale urine. I was forced to sit in a small chair. My left to arm to an iron bar, my right to the back of the chair. After an hour, the pain burns between your shoulder blades.
After the seventh hour a policeman came.
“You are suspected of being member of an illegal organization. What do you have to say?”
I begged of them to believe I was innocent and tried to tell them of my wife and children, but they cut across my speech faster than I could talk with dehydration.
“Well then, if you won’t confess, we’ll have to step it up a little.”
First they fed me; unexpected with circumstance. An egg, Half of a tomato. 2 pieces of bread. Strange coloured water.
The bag went over my head again. I tried to move to get more comfortable and fell taking the chair with me. They punched me in the face for this mistake.
The room was so cold. I imagined a roof made from corrugated zinc. After a while I realised I could hear other people in rooms next to me. I tried to shout to them.
Then the tapes began playing loudly from speakers above my head. Ear-splitting amplified noise They played 4 cassettes, with the same songs, 24 hours a day. Over and over. The chosen songs specifically tailored to make your skull bang every time the same word was heard, the same word was heard, the same word was heard. Mercilessly endless, insanity inducing.
“Ready to talk?”
That day I was taken to the police station, I waited 5 hours to go to court. In court they told the judge that they needed more time to gather evidence against me. I wasn’t allowed to talk to my lawyer. He tried to argue that lack of evidence meant false claims.
The judge extended my custody. 8 days.
The plastic bind around my wrists was now even tighter. Different chair, new kind of pain. Shoulders, back, knees, wrists.
“Stand like this, do not move.”
The chair was gone, and I was now free-standing. My hands attached to a pole, no leaning allowed. The sack was smelling more putrid with every hour. If I leant my head back, the bag suffocated me and I‘d begin to heave. I stood for days.
If my jailors believed me to be asleep, they gave me harsh prods to the base of my spine. I was allowed to eat twice a day. If I was lucky. Egg, tomato, bread and strange coloured water.
After 4 exhausting days, I began to have visitors in my room; I kept seeing as though there was no bag to cover my vision. A family body lying spread-eagled on the floor.
My brother is dead.
My father is dead.
My uncle is dead.
My mother is sick, she needs the hospital, she won’t stop crying.
I tell them not to arrest my wife but they take her anyway.
My children are dead.
After the 6th day, they let me sleep for three hours.
Suddenly the pain, which was all over my body, began to sear to the point of
Agony through my chest. I screamed for help.
“Ready to confess?”
I told them of my pain. Outside the room I heard them murmuring of my high blood pressure causing problems; so they tightened the plastic cords to cut into my wrists further.
My stomach a constant groan; I still wasn’t getting enough to eat. The pain was beginning to fade from certain parts of my body, beginning with my hands.
Interrogation ranged. A minute. 30 minutes, two hours, four hours. Every 24 to 30 hours.
“Are you ready to confess? We have all our information, you just need to sign.”
My daughter is dead.
My wife is dead.
“If you want to sleep, then all you have to do is talk?”
I had nothing new to say. He punched me in the left shoulder suddenly, then shook me violently throwing me back into the chair. I knew he had intended to give me a heart attack.
The cell walls begin to pound with music again. I pull painfully hard against my wrists in an instant reflex to cover my ears in torment.
I was back in court for the same fiasco of haggling over days they could hold me. The judge agreed to another 7 days, despite my lawyers protests.
On my way back to the building through the blindfold my captor whispered in my ear that I was moving to a new room, and apologised, telling me to co-operate.
A box, 1.2 metres square, filled with human excrement and urine. After a day I began to hallucinate that my cell was big, and consistently walked into the wall unable to pace.
My brother is dead.
My daughters are dead…
After a week I was beginning to pass out. They let me sleep for 5 hours in a small room with a stained mattress on the floor. They took me to court again. They argued that they were looking for one final piece of information on me, and needed another 5 days. My lawyer adamant that there was no information. The judge agreed on my release.
They had held me for 28 days, without cause. Now I had reason to talk.
I shook my head vigorously in confusion. The officer then took a sack and shoved it over my head and tied my hands behind me with a thin plastic bind, making it so tight the corner bit into the skin like claw pincers. The sack had a dirty smell, stale urine. I was forced to sit in a small chair. My left to arm to an iron bar, my right to the back of the chair. After an hour, the pain burns between your shoulder blades.
After the seventh hour a policeman came.
“You are suspected of being member of an illegal organization. What do you have to say?”
I begged of them to believe I was innocent and tried to tell them of my wife and children, but they cut across my speech faster than I could talk with dehydration.
“Well then, if you won’t confess, we’ll have to step it up a little.”
First they fed me; unexpected with circumstance. An egg, Half of a tomato. 2 pieces of bread. Strange coloured water.
The bag went over my head again. I tried to move to get more comfortable and fell taking the chair with me. They punched me in the face for this mistake.
The room was so cold. I imagined a roof made from corrugated zinc. After a while I realised I could hear other people in rooms next to me. I tried to shout to them.
Then the tapes began playing loudly from speakers above my head. Ear-splitting amplified noise They played 4 cassettes, with the same songs, 24 hours a day. Over and over. The chosen songs specifically tailored to make your skull bang every time the same word was heard, the same word was heard, the same word was heard. Mercilessly endless, insanity inducing.
“Ready to talk?”
That day I was taken to the police station, I waited 5 hours to go to court. In court they told the judge that they needed more time to gather evidence against me. I wasn’t allowed to talk to my lawyer. He tried to argue that lack of evidence meant false claims.
The judge extended my custody. 8 days.
The plastic bind around my wrists was now even tighter. Different chair, new kind of pain. Shoulders, back, knees, wrists.
“Stand like this, do not move.”
The chair was gone, and I was now free-standing. My hands attached to a pole, no leaning allowed. The sack was smelling more putrid with every hour. If I leant my head back, the bag suffocated me and I‘d begin to heave. I stood for days.
If my jailors believed me to be asleep, they gave me harsh prods to the base of my spine. I was allowed to eat twice a day. If I was lucky. Egg, tomato, bread and strange coloured water.
After 4 exhausting days, I began to have visitors in my room; I kept seeing as though there was no bag to cover my vision. A family body lying spread-eagled on the floor.
My brother is dead.
My father is dead.
My uncle is dead.
My mother is sick, she needs the hospital, she won’t stop crying.
I tell them not to arrest my wife but they take her anyway.
My children are dead.
After the 6th day, they let me sleep for three hours.
Suddenly the pain, which was all over my body, began to sear to the point of
Agony through my chest. I screamed for help.
“Ready to confess?”
I told them of my pain. Outside the room I heard them murmuring of my high blood pressure causing problems; so they tightened the plastic cords to cut into my wrists further.
My stomach a constant groan; I still wasn’t getting enough to eat. The pain was beginning to fade from certain parts of my body, beginning with my hands.
Interrogation ranged. A minute. 30 minutes, two hours, four hours. Every 24 to 30 hours.
“Are you ready to confess? We have all our information, you just need to sign.”
My daughter is dead.
My wife is dead.
“If you want to sleep, then all you have to do is talk?”
I had nothing new to say. He punched me in the left shoulder suddenly, then shook me violently throwing me back into the chair. I knew he had intended to give me a heart attack.
The cell walls begin to pound with music again. I pull painfully hard against my wrists in an instant reflex to cover my ears in torment.
I was back in court for the same fiasco of haggling over days they could hold me. The judge agreed to another 7 days, despite my lawyers protests.
On my way back to the building through the blindfold my captor whispered in my ear that I was moving to a new room, and apologised, telling me to co-operate.
A box, 1.2 metres square, filled with human excrement and urine. After a day I began to hallucinate that my cell was big, and consistently walked into the wall unable to pace.
My brother is dead.
My daughters are dead…
After a week I was beginning to pass out. They let me sleep for 5 hours in a small room with a stained mattress on the floor. They took me to court again. They argued that they were looking for one final piece of information on me, and needed another 5 days. My lawyer adamant that there was no information. The judge agreed on my release.
They had held me for 28 days, without cause. Now I had reason to talk.
Election Selection
You can hear it vocally, instrumentally
in different varieties:
Coming from the TV in oppositional keys,
asking you to think of them
preferentially and have faith that
they can proficiently run the country.
You don’t have to be a member of
any party to see the dilemma of watching
their hands talking in answer
to different demands on the
budget and education
environmental issues and afghan territory;
and essential governmental reform.
And throughout the uplifting
speeches I can see the public drifting
unable to see through the plastic
in their enthusiastic, almost gymnastic
mannerisms.
and as they continue to be iconoclastic
with their actions
its easy to see sarcastic falseness that
they all endeavour in the drastic
cuts ahead.
With the significant certificates
in frames to substantiate claims that they
are real and know the people and how it is
to live and give in to redundancy and
unemployment. Or what its like to
graduate and end up in a state where a lack
of communication and a combined medication
helps the emotional repression of
struggling through a global recession.
Where fuel prices creep and our nation stays deep
In debt. .
And with the accession of these feeble men
who agree to the progression
of the UK. And though as Britain
we always stand strong I worry of our
public decisions and the rhythms that keep
coming out of the radio-waves.
The black suited Ferrari-drivers.
Who forget what the cold
feels like as they perch on hard-seated benches
floating on a sea of green bills.
surfing through rough high tides.
in different varieties:
Coming from the TV in oppositional keys,
asking you to think of them
preferentially and have faith that
they can proficiently run the country.
You don’t have to be a member of
any party to see the dilemma of watching
their hands talking in answer
to different demands on the
budget and education
environmental issues and afghan territory;
and essential governmental reform.
And throughout the uplifting
speeches I can see the public drifting
unable to see through the plastic
in their enthusiastic, almost gymnastic
mannerisms.
and as they continue to be iconoclastic
with their actions
its easy to see sarcastic falseness that
they all endeavour in the drastic
cuts ahead.
With the significant certificates
in frames to substantiate claims that they
are real and know the people and how it is
to live and give in to redundancy and
unemployment. Or what its like to
graduate and end up in a state where a lack
of communication and a combined medication
helps the emotional repression of
struggling through a global recession.
Where fuel prices creep and our nation stays deep
In debt. .
And with the accession of these feeble men
who agree to the progression
of the UK. And though as Britain
we always stand strong I worry of our
public decisions and the rhythms that keep
coming out of the radio-waves.
The black suited Ferrari-drivers.
Who forget what the cold
feels like as they perch on hard-seated benches
floating on a sea of green bills.
surfing through rough high tides.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Body Bomb
There lies a corpse with a seam down his stomach; stitched together like a rag doll.
He used to sell DVD’s to passing American soldiers;
“Hey man, I do you great deal, two for ten, great deal for gentlemen?”
There lies a corpse in the basement with a seam down his stomach,
mechanized organs and his eyes are still open.
His body a bag for electrical destruction, his chest serving the function -
To kill, and destroy.
The team of soldiers pile in steady and surround the mortuary table in line.
The soldier to the rear heaves and turns to leave, choking on the stench of stale air.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Jeez, this could be somebody’s son!”
“Shit.”
“Step back”
“It’s a body bomb.”
Tense silence. Nervous feet begin to shuffle.
The EOD steps forward and orders evacuation.
Duffle bag ready he crosses his hand over his chest in crucifixal motion,
before taking the wire cutters and with the thought of promotion,
he takes the blade to the first stitch.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
A buzzing fly lands upon the corpse’s open eyelid,
rubbing its feet together eagerly
The soldier blinks and takes the blade to the next stitch immediately.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Snip.
Guilt trip, this kid looks twelve.
The chrome box stained with rusty brown paint;
wires protruding like snakes from the head of Medusa. Concentration to de-wire.
Globules of sweat form across warm heat of his steaming head.
The putrid smell of mixed metal malodorous flesh. Retching through fierce focus.
He wipes his brow and disallows distraction of the length’s the enemy go
to conceal a bomb and with shaking palms
disarms the device; risking his life to cut
The right wire.
He steps back and surveys the boy on the table, glad he disabled
the remains. A quick message on the radio wire static, “Clear!”
There lies a corpse with a seam down his stomach;
Stitches wide open like an experimented rag doll.
He used to sell DVD’s to passing American soldiers;
“Hey man, I do you great deal, two for ten, great deal for gentlemen?”
There lies a corpse in the basement with a seam down his stomach,
mechanized organs and his eyes are still open.
His body a bag for electrical destruction, his chest serving the function -
To kill, and destroy.
The team of soldiers pile in steady and surround the mortuary table in line.
The soldier to the rear heaves and turns to leave, choking on the stench of stale air.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Jeez, this could be somebody’s son!”
“Shit.”
“Step back”
“It’s a body bomb.”
Tense silence. Nervous feet begin to shuffle.
The EOD steps forward and orders evacuation.
Duffle bag ready he crosses his hand over his chest in crucifixal motion,
before taking the wire cutters and with the thought of promotion,
he takes the blade to the first stitch.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
A buzzing fly lands upon the corpse’s open eyelid,
rubbing its feet together eagerly
The soldier blinks and takes the blade to the next stitch immediately.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Snip.
Guilt trip, this kid looks twelve.
The chrome box stained with rusty brown paint;
wires protruding like snakes from the head of Medusa. Concentration to de-wire.
Globules of sweat form across warm heat of his steaming head.
The putrid smell of mixed metal malodorous flesh. Retching through fierce focus.
He wipes his brow and disallows distraction of the length’s the enemy go
to conceal a bomb and with shaking palms
disarms the device; risking his life to cut
The right wire.
He steps back and surveys the boy on the table, glad he disabled
the remains. A quick message on the radio wire static, “Clear!”
There lies a corpse with a seam down his stomach;
Stitches wide open like an experimented rag doll.
Bullet Waltz
Looking at life through stained glass, imaginative cameras of our choice.
Until the mechanisms break; and you realise your nightmares are a repressed reality.
Playing air guitar with guns on the shore.
Revelling in the sunlight.
We made huts from banana leaves.
Patchouli oil still makes me feel nauseous.
Following scents in the dark..
Walking through the terminal,
Surveying duty free, tobacco, alcohol, jewellery…
Suddenly I realise the planes are all carcasses.
And our flight will never leave.
26 black wolf dogs;
panting, running, gasping for breath through deserted Palestinian streets in vicious packs.
Pushing past tables and chairs,
splashing through puddles ruining reflected images of a mother and her child.
They finally stop and look up to the tallest window,
Begin to bark and then, I wake. Remembering that order to shoot
the village guard dogs.
A solitary man standing on the pier in a raincoat. Facing his eyes up the sky.
An empty ocean; cerulean blue.
A woman, blue as the sea, takes a small soldier and swims
back stroke as he clings to her breast child-like.
The water turning slowly to tangerine shades of orange and crimson.
Red.
Classical piano concertos in rhythm with the bombing.
A kid holding an RPG.
Dead.
Slaughtered Arabian horses, neighing terror.
Naked men emerging from water holding guns. Bearing only
their dog tags.
Walking from the sea to bathe the blood from
their bodies.
Sniper fire from the top of a building,
and we cant see where it comes from
but it flies in our direction.
Hissing RPG’s, shattering walls, stuttering firing and
a media correspondent, walking through bullets like Superman.
One soldier leaps up from the barricade,
dancing as though tranced as if he wanted to show off
a waltz with gunfire.
His firing sporadic with accuracy.
Looking at life through stained glass,
imaginative cameras of our choice.
Until the mechanisms break…
And you finally wake up.
Until the mechanisms break; and you realise your nightmares are a repressed reality.
Playing air guitar with guns on the shore.
Revelling in the sunlight.
We made huts from banana leaves.
Patchouli oil still makes me feel nauseous.
Following scents in the dark..
Walking through the terminal,
Surveying duty free, tobacco, alcohol, jewellery…
Suddenly I realise the planes are all carcasses.
And our flight will never leave.
26 black wolf dogs;
panting, running, gasping for breath through deserted Palestinian streets in vicious packs.
Pushing past tables and chairs,
splashing through puddles ruining reflected images of a mother and her child.
They finally stop and look up to the tallest window,
Begin to bark and then, I wake. Remembering that order to shoot
the village guard dogs.
A solitary man standing on the pier in a raincoat. Facing his eyes up the sky.
An empty ocean; cerulean blue.
A woman, blue as the sea, takes a small soldier and swims
back stroke as he clings to her breast child-like.
The water turning slowly to tangerine shades of orange and crimson.
Red.
Classical piano concertos in rhythm with the bombing.
A kid holding an RPG.
Dead.
Slaughtered Arabian horses, neighing terror.
Naked men emerging from water holding guns. Bearing only
their dog tags.
Walking from the sea to bathe the blood from
their bodies.
Sniper fire from the top of a building,
and we cant see where it comes from
but it flies in our direction.
Hissing RPG’s, shattering walls, stuttering firing and
a media correspondent, walking through bullets like Superman.
One soldier leaps up from the barricade,
dancing as though tranced as if he wanted to show off
a waltz with gunfire.
His firing sporadic with accuracy.
Looking at life through stained glass,
imaginative cameras of our choice.
Until the mechanisms break…
And you finally wake up.
Burma: Video-Journalism
It begins with a single man holding up a hand-painted sign.
The busy street bustling body-crowded.
They begin to stare.
His demonstration too much a reminder of what they can’t say.
Atmosphere tense; the crowd wait.
10 undercover government agents; white-shirted.
He is dragged headfirst into a truck, pulled by every limb.
The shoal of people move on
Silent.
Monks.
Many Monks.
Marching from Mandalay to Rangoon.
Their orange chain sweeps through the city;
turning their alms bowls upside down on a pilgrimage for the people.
A glimpse of Aung Sun Suu Kyi;
makes tears of hope flood the nation.
Regime regulation: Gatherings of more than five will now be punishable by arrest.
Foreign news crews banned. Internet connections cut.
A thousand armed uniforms,
stand barricaded from a sea of free thought.
Vans filled with back-up officers.
All exits;
Blocked.
The monks kneel to pray and chant.
Their song spreading across the waiting crowd,
erupting into a tumultuous cheer;
the megphone sounds.
Gunshots and a roar of fear.
A dull distant thump of bodies, slamming into vans.
Beaten nuns and bloodied faces.
Regime regulation: Enforced curfew. 9pm-5am.
Nobody to hear the destruction.
Monastries raided in the dead of night. Buddha’s smashed.
The monks rounded up to be bound at the feet.
Forced to kneel;
And kicked in the face if their eyes dared look up…
The sun rises on the hundred Burmese monks.
They make a wall,
standing tall,
chanting for the people,
“Our cause!”
A corresponding wall,
shields and uniform,
start marching forward
to collide with peaceful prayers.
The monks stripped of their orange robes.
Beaten with bats.
Dragged into vans by their feet.
Blinded by tear gas.
The few brave straggling students.
Refuse fear.
Until the rifle fire, fires into the alleyways.
The people fall silent..
Burma VJ
Reporting from a closed country.
Where the west are too scared to act;
And too shocked to turn off the TV set.
The busy street bustling body-crowded.
They begin to stare.
His demonstration too much a reminder of what they can’t say.
Atmosphere tense; the crowd wait.
10 undercover government agents; white-shirted.
He is dragged headfirst into a truck, pulled by every limb.
The shoal of people move on
Silent.
Monks.
Many Monks.
Marching from Mandalay to Rangoon.
Their orange chain sweeps through the city;
turning their alms bowls upside down on a pilgrimage for the people.
A glimpse of Aung Sun Suu Kyi;
makes tears of hope flood the nation.
Regime regulation: Gatherings of more than five will now be punishable by arrest.
Foreign news crews banned. Internet connections cut.
A thousand armed uniforms,
stand barricaded from a sea of free thought.
Vans filled with back-up officers.
All exits;
Blocked.
The monks kneel to pray and chant.
Their song spreading across the waiting crowd,
erupting into a tumultuous cheer;
the megphone sounds.
Gunshots and a roar of fear.
A dull distant thump of bodies, slamming into vans.
Beaten nuns and bloodied faces.
Regime regulation: Enforced curfew. 9pm-5am.
Nobody to hear the destruction.
Monastries raided in the dead of night. Buddha’s smashed.
The monks rounded up to be bound at the feet.
Forced to kneel;
And kicked in the face if their eyes dared look up…
The sun rises on the hundred Burmese monks.
They make a wall,
standing tall,
chanting for the people,
“Our cause!”
A corresponding wall,
shields and uniform,
start marching forward
to collide with peaceful prayers.
The monks stripped of their orange robes.
Beaten with bats.
Dragged into vans by their feet.
Blinded by tear gas.
The few brave straggling students.
Refuse fear.
Until the rifle fire, fires into the alleyways.
The people fall silent..
Burma VJ
Reporting from a closed country.
Where the west are too scared to act;
And too shocked to turn off the TV set.
Pacific Pacifism
So, It boils down to this:
Religion
Power
Money
Politics:
These, the recurring causes
That justify the constant squabbling
And hostility between nations
Who in all capability, could refrain from doing so.
Surely as global intelligence, by now, someone
would realise that we have been warring
and killing
and taking for reasons that
Do
Not
Count.
Imagine a resolve in which people had no passion or cause to fight for
and each country and each culture
respects other countries and other cultures,
and understands that we are different for reasons, and we don’t need to fight because we
might just destroy ourselves.
Fighting amongst each other like pathetic school children.
Black and white footage of soldiers returning home,
Patriotism rife and loves embrace on train station.
Platforms where people flood with tears
at the simple joy of seeing each other alive.
I fear our world has acclimatized to living at war so
Much so, that when asked
To join a war that we aren’t involved in
We accept it like cake on a platter
Because war is the next step up from resolve
And now its just nature, habit,
The cause.
That makes each country fight and want to kill
and conquer and destroy
and as we proceed through these storms,
In these closing statements, I argue the point:
Let the people beg to differ and as we set aside our differences
and assemble our own army united we can
disarm this Weapon of Mass Destruction
that we call ‘Justice‘.
For the present
future of our next generation to speak and be heard
To follow a route towards universal co-operation.
Religion
Power
Money
Politics:
These, the recurring causes
That justify the constant squabbling
And hostility between nations
Who in all capability, could refrain from doing so.
Surely as global intelligence, by now, someone
would realise that we have been warring
and killing
and taking for reasons that
Do
Not
Count.
Imagine a resolve in which people had no passion or cause to fight for
and each country and each culture
respects other countries and other cultures,
and understands that we are different for reasons, and we don’t need to fight because we
might just destroy ourselves.
Fighting amongst each other like pathetic school children.
Black and white footage of soldiers returning home,
Patriotism rife and loves embrace on train station.
Platforms where people flood with tears
at the simple joy of seeing each other alive.
I fear our world has acclimatized to living at war so
Much so, that when asked
To join a war that we aren’t involved in
We accept it like cake on a platter
Because war is the next step up from resolve
And now its just nature, habit,
The cause.
That makes each country fight and want to kill
and conquer and destroy
and as we proceed through these storms,
In these closing statements, I argue the point:
Let the people beg to differ and as we set aside our differences
and assemble our own army united we can
disarm this Weapon of Mass Destruction
that we call ‘Justice‘.
For the present
future of our next generation to speak and be heard
To follow a route towards universal co-operation.
Chemical Binge
Nuclear, the powerful atomic force
between cold wars and power over power
fighting for top country.
The destructive and demobilising.
Imagine: bleak soil ranging miles of burnt land
and bones lying bare from the searing of flesh.
Suffering the agonising pain
of the burning that is demolishing miles of land;
lasting ages and crippling cities for decades to come.
The lasting punishment; a cowardly put down.
And if this is the future and
Korea are hiding their advances in
weapons of mass destruction then they
Are surely not alone?
We ourselves powerless at our own investment
in the Trident scheme.
Fission and fusion.
Both reactions releasing deaths fog in the shape of a mushroom cloud.
Vast quantities of energy .
And the detonation of a billion kilograms of conventional high explosive, exploding craters
in land, exploding oceans.
Atom bombs abusing every atom on earth.
The fusion firing up isotopes of hydrogen, deuterium, tritium and fission.
Such science should be left alone; and our curiosity doesn’t stop at genocide.
And if the people of Nagasaki and Hiroshima are still
Giving birth to deformed children who are
suffering for what they never experienced.
Is there ever a cause where 80,000 people need to pay for -
politics?
between cold wars and power over power
fighting for top country.
The destructive and demobilising.
Imagine: bleak soil ranging miles of burnt land
and bones lying bare from the searing of flesh.
Suffering the agonising pain
of the burning that is demolishing miles of land;
lasting ages and crippling cities for decades to come.
The lasting punishment; a cowardly put down.
And if this is the future and
Korea are hiding their advances in
weapons of mass destruction then they
Are surely not alone?
We ourselves powerless at our own investment
in the Trident scheme.
Fission and fusion.
Both reactions releasing deaths fog in the shape of a mushroom cloud.
Vast quantities of energy .
And the detonation of a billion kilograms of conventional high explosive, exploding craters
in land, exploding oceans.
Atom bombs abusing every atom on earth.
The fusion firing up isotopes of hydrogen, deuterium, tritium and fission.
Such science should be left alone; and our curiosity doesn’t stop at genocide.
And if the people of Nagasaki and Hiroshima are still
Giving birth to deformed children who are
suffering for what they never experienced.
Is there ever a cause where 80,000 people need to pay for -
politics?
Enlisted Fleas
So rack those soldiers up good, I tell ya.
Put them in a plane and send ‘em off…
It’s for their country sure, they know what they’re there for;
They know what the Taliban do…
A black mass of overhead planes stuck in a haze of sheeted jumpers; jumping around the
desert like flea’s; bullet dodging as they land.
Bush say’s jump and flea’s jump. They bite too. Bite hard; drawing blood.
The plain’s are usually quiet, but not near the oil-fields.
So much money in thick, gelatinous sludge, black fuel for the trucks that keep rolling in.
where the streets keep filling up with new Afghan soldiers ready for riot fighting.
Pakistan borderline, it’s getting dangerous.
Car’s aren’t safe to drive in anymore, they might have been wire tampered.
But we got it, we can’t stop it, we just got to make some changes.
The wicked sound, rattling ages, crashing over quaking windows.
So what’s it for? Oh, man. The, coffin’s are coming in weekly –
and the news doesn’t say it all.
I see that woman blink awkwardly between those sentences covered in blood.
And as she tries to hide the truth in her eyes; she blinks with shame, every time she see’s a
plane heading southward’s in a dust filled sky.
It’s not her fault, or theirs, or ours, or mine… and I’m sorry. So sorry.
I say sorry a lot, see?
So don’t trust the woman on TV. Fake political apology for a self-created catastrophe.
The money accounts are draining out and the people are bleeding out in the desert.
There’s no room for human nature in military training.
What will you find out if you check an enemy soldiers pulse? That you’re both dead…
Put them in a plane and send ‘em off…
It’s for their country sure, they know what they’re there for;
They know what the Taliban do…
A black mass of overhead planes stuck in a haze of sheeted jumpers; jumping around the
desert like flea’s; bullet dodging as they land.
Bush say’s jump and flea’s jump. They bite too. Bite hard; drawing blood.
The plain’s are usually quiet, but not near the oil-fields.
So much money in thick, gelatinous sludge, black fuel for the trucks that keep rolling in.
where the streets keep filling up with new Afghan soldiers ready for riot fighting.
Pakistan borderline, it’s getting dangerous.
Car’s aren’t safe to drive in anymore, they might have been wire tampered.
But we got it, we can’t stop it, we just got to make some changes.
The wicked sound, rattling ages, crashing over quaking windows.
So what’s it for? Oh, man. The, coffin’s are coming in weekly –
and the news doesn’t say it all.
I see that woman blink awkwardly between those sentences covered in blood.
And as she tries to hide the truth in her eyes; she blinks with shame, every time she see’s a
plane heading southward’s in a dust filled sky.
It’s not her fault, or theirs, or ours, or mine… and I’m sorry. So sorry.
I say sorry a lot, see?
So don’t trust the woman on TV. Fake political apology for a self-created catastrophe.
The money accounts are draining out and the people are bleeding out in the desert.
There’s no room for human nature in military training.
What will you find out if you check an enemy soldiers pulse? That you’re both dead…
Pep Talk
The soldier crouched in a sand pit waiting
at almost ten past eleven.
A fellow skinhead joins the dug out
says he’s sick of it and rests upon his AK-47.
Twitching with every racket rumble.
“I went blind today, I just went blind,
I could hear Sarge screaming and I just couldn’t find
anyone to help me I thought I would wind up dead!”
The soldier’s huffs upon a cigarette.
“Another IED got a kid today, is that the way it is? I can’t stay here, I can’t do this?”
The superior cocks his head and heaves a sigh.
“Look kid, I know its tough but you gotta be ready to die…”
He flicks his butt and turns his attention to the deserted horizon, waiting for noise.
A scorpion scuttle’s along the edge of the sand pit approaching the young soldiers
shoulder.
Sting poised.
A sudden noise nearby explodes and the army men jump and crouch. AK-47 ready,
hand’s not quite steady but waiting. All in a day’s work in Helmand province...
at almost ten past eleven.
A fellow skinhead joins the dug out
says he’s sick of it and rests upon his AK-47.
Twitching with every racket rumble.
“I went blind today, I just went blind,
I could hear Sarge screaming and I just couldn’t find
anyone to help me I thought I would wind up dead!”
The soldier’s huffs upon a cigarette.
“Another IED got a kid today, is that the way it is? I can’t stay here, I can’t do this?”
The superior cocks his head and heaves a sigh.
“Look kid, I know its tough but you gotta be ready to die…”
He flicks his butt and turns his attention to the deserted horizon, waiting for noise.
A scorpion scuttle’s along the edge of the sand pit approaching the young soldiers
shoulder.
Sting poised.
A sudden noise nearby explodes and the army men jump and crouch. AK-47 ready,
hand’s not quite steady but waiting. All in a day’s work in Helmand province...
No More Words
No more words,
No more words,
Because corpses don’t have futures.
Fish in a pond that’s slowly drying out in the desert.;
cracked lips sucking straws, soaking stinging hydration.
I’ve come to realise nothing that breathes is perfect.
If the possibility of sleep arises,
I’d choose their dreams not mine.
Don’t tell the mourning how there are no more words;
Just let them write their goodbyes on paper.
No more noise as the fallen bodies pass through Wootton Bassett,
no passing cheers for the return of sons and daughters.
Union jack flagged over boxes, the procession of silence.
Notice how the politicians have no more words;
failing to appear in the crowd for repatriation,
Failing to salute but willing to send away.
Don’t say a word about the 100,000 civilians,
caught in the crossfire of their country,
or the British death toll, that now exceeds
Thatcher’s Falkland.
Don’t tell them how there are no more words
Or how the dead don’t dream…
No more words,
Because corpses don’t have futures.
Fish in a pond that’s slowly drying out in the desert.;
cracked lips sucking straws, soaking stinging hydration.
I’ve come to realise nothing that breathes is perfect.
If the possibility of sleep arises,
I’d choose their dreams not mine.
Don’t tell the mourning how there are no more words;
Just let them write their goodbyes on paper.
No more noise as the fallen bodies pass through Wootton Bassett,
no passing cheers for the return of sons and daughters.
Union jack flagged over boxes, the procession of silence.
Notice how the politicians have no more words;
failing to appear in the crowd for repatriation,
Failing to salute but willing to send away.
Don’t say a word about the 100,000 civilians,
caught in the crossfire of their country,
or the British death toll, that now exceeds
Thatcher’s Falkland.
Don’t tell them how there are no more words
Or how the dead don’t dream…
Opium Fields
In afghan fields where poppies grow;
Opium pods, row on row,
They know their place and in the sky,
Gunfire and fighter jets furiously fly,
Scarce to scare farmers below. #
The number one export around the world,
75 per cent of global supply.
And if you work for Taliban,
we’ll take the war to the backstreets of the London,
and ghetto’s of America.
Where the poverty poor are unaware they are;
Smoking the enemy gear.
Let the indulgent indulge on the plants we
grow from eastern worlds; make it so they
kill themselves before we kill them;
And we’ll spread death through the underground.
In afghan fields, where poppies grow
And an armed farmer surrounding
By buds of poison
Takes his blade to scrape resin off the closed
Shells of our well known memorial flower.
Opium pods, row on row,
They know their place and in the sky,
Gunfire and fighter jets furiously fly,
Scarce to scare farmers below. #
The number one export around the world,
75 per cent of global supply.
And if you work for Taliban,
we’ll take the war to the backstreets of the London,
and ghetto’s of America.
Where the poverty poor are unaware they are;
Smoking the enemy gear.
Let the indulgent indulge on the plants we
grow from eastern worlds; make it so they
kill themselves before we kill them;
And we’ll spread death through the underground.
In afghan fields, where poppies grow
And an armed farmer surrounding
By buds of poison
Takes his blade to scrape resin off the closed
Shells of our well known memorial flower.
Wargasm
Lock 'n' load
the emaciated women.
gyrating bodies for money.
The closest feeling to getting the kill -
young testosterone driven men begging for some
Trigger action.
With the little girls swallowing pride in their bitter grind.
Four soldiers
one foreign whore.
Haggling prices with her pimp for a go
On her skinny body.
Cheap prices to fill -
Boredom boredom.
As they continue to wait for the thrill of destruction;
brainwashed to enjoy the taste of blood,
vampyric desperation,
seductive thirst for brutality and
The desire to conquer
her virgin smell.
Painful moans of too much recklessness -
Pulling her hair out with
each agonising thrust.
the emaciated women.
gyrating bodies for money.
The closest feeling to getting the kill -
young testosterone driven men begging for some
Trigger action.
With the little girls swallowing pride in their bitter grind.
Four soldiers
one foreign whore.
Haggling prices with her pimp for a go
On her skinny body.
Cheap prices to fill -
Boredom boredom.
As they continue to wait for the thrill of destruction;
brainwashed to enjoy the taste of blood,
vampyric desperation,
seductive thirst for brutality and
The desire to conquer
her virgin smell.
Painful moans of too much recklessness -
Pulling her hair out with
each agonising thrust.
Call of Duty
Bullets rattle, and angry voices echo amongst the battlefield:
relax though, it’s just a game.
Electronic fighting.
Modern warfare, controller buttons bashing. (tick tick)
Racking against my skull.
The next generation of combat shooter:
bang, blast through a glass screen; glaring.
Electronic training.
Guidance certificate means nothing
when thirteen year old boys can experience war
in their bedroom with their brothers.
Brainwashed to enjoy the enjoyment
of watching a man burn alive from a flamethrower
you activated by pressing B.
Monotones of voice-breaking laughter.
The sick room cultivated internet servers;
where legions of young are already trained in
stealth and strategy.
Where Infinity Ward take history and
and make it so
it can be replayed for their children.
A nation where they expect nothing less than to
enlist at the drop of a hat for the levelling experience.
And to get the ultimate kill-streak;
unlock rewards to increase killing potential.
Grenades or Centex? Decisions, decisions.
0.50 cal at the ready.
War, like you’ve never experienced before.
Where on the Terminal patch, you can be killed or
kill the terrorist. United offensive.
Blow up the airport; or kill those blowing it up.
Take national fear and make it a game;
It’s only on a screen so its not the same.
Helicopter wings rotate, flying across a city burning.
Imitation tragedy
relax though, it’s just a game.
Electronic fighting.
Modern warfare, controller buttons bashing. (tick tick)
Racking against my skull.
The next generation of combat shooter:
bang, blast through a glass screen; glaring.
Electronic training.
Guidance certificate means nothing
when thirteen year old boys can experience war
in their bedroom with their brothers.
Brainwashed to enjoy the enjoyment
of watching a man burn alive from a flamethrower
you activated by pressing B.
Monotones of voice-breaking laughter.
The sick room cultivated internet servers;
where legions of young are already trained in
stealth and strategy.
Where Infinity Ward take history and
and make it so
it can be replayed for their children.
A nation where they expect nothing less than to
enlist at the drop of a hat for the levelling experience.
And to get the ultimate kill-streak;
unlock rewards to increase killing potential.
Grenades or Centex? Decisions, decisions.
0.50 cal at the ready.
War, like you’ve never experienced before.
Where on the Terminal patch, you can be killed or
kill the terrorist. United offensive.
Blow up the airport; or kill those blowing it up.
Take national fear and make it a game;
It’s only on a screen so its not the same.
Helicopter wings rotate, flying across a city burning.
Imitation tragedy
Snatch Landrovers
Cold hard steel boned body armour barricaded
metal diesel eater.
From snatching the Irish on wheel easy tarmac
To defending the British on Arabic sand.
Defending with metal that lets bullets melt
through steel like butter.
Eye for eye and everyone’s blinded
in the fog of exploding dust of
a roadside bomb.
IED’s planted like decoration on
a beige terrain where huge vehicles stand out
like peacocks in the desert -
Yellow green plumage outstanding obviously
to watching sand chameleons.
For only £50,000 pretty cheap
and pretty speedy
but we’ve all got flaws and there are flaws
in being cheap
and easy. Soldiers become casualties as
they have to handle vehicles
that can’t defend from fire blasts and machine rounds.
While unable to cover soft ground
regularly stuck in water pools with
mud wedged wheels unable to survive the
conditions of the ground blasting beneath
the drivers seat. And as
resigning commanders begging political
investment get no vehicle response the
headlines scrutinize every government move as
the mobile coffins amongst
crew wait to die in their seats.
In the so called
protected patrol vehicle.
metal diesel eater.
From snatching the Irish on wheel easy tarmac
To defending the British on Arabic sand.
Defending with metal that lets bullets melt
through steel like butter.
Eye for eye and everyone’s blinded
in the fog of exploding dust of
a roadside bomb.
IED’s planted like decoration on
a beige terrain where huge vehicles stand out
like peacocks in the desert -
Yellow green plumage outstanding obviously
to watching sand chameleons.
For only £50,000 pretty cheap
and pretty speedy
but we’ve all got flaws and there are flaws
in being cheap
and easy. Soldiers become casualties as
they have to handle vehicles
that can’t defend from fire blasts and machine rounds.
While unable to cover soft ground
regularly stuck in water pools with
mud wedged wheels unable to survive the
conditions of the ground blasting beneath
the drivers seat. And as
resigning commanders begging political
investment get no vehicle response the
headlines scrutinize every government move as
the mobile coffins amongst
crew wait to die in their seats.
In the so called
protected patrol vehicle.
The Sixth Pillar
The people whisper the Holy Shahadah during
Salah 5 times a day, where the kneeled worshippers worldwide
honour the pillars of Islam; finding comfort in their faith.
And as they pray towards Mecca
each morning there are some who then fear
to take a bus to work in London because people
stare at them fearing their presence during rush hour.
Like in Ireland where a Catholic schoolboy
has to take a longer route home for fear of
walking Protestant streets.
Or in Israel and Palestine where they fight each other;
over borders where their oppositional
faiths share the same Holy Land and
they all share the same desire for freedom.
The 6th pillar, vast, ominous and ever-growing.
Casting long shadows on the West.
Where metaphors of words in books
are custom to bickering amongst
every preacher.
Jihad:
where military vocabulary and scripture
should never mix.
The 5 are strong but the 6th sways precariously
threatening to fall against the other pillars
causing a domino effect of destruction
An ending catastrophe where a Muslim
has no choice but to join the Fatwa
because we are making it so
they are unable to pray or walk
publicly without racial prejudice; and slang offences
Screamed in the streets.
These wars against faith can never win;
believers unafraid to die for
entities.
The war of words where people contextualise
what needs to be left ambiguous; and where
people all want the same thing under differing terminology.
Salah 5 times a day, where the kneeled worshippers worldwide
honour the pillars of Islam; finding comfort in their faith.
And as they pray towards Mecca
each morning there are some who then fear
to take a bus to work in London because people
stare at them fearing their presence during rush hour.
Like in Ireland where a Catholic schoolboy
has to take a longer route home for fear of
walking Protestant streets.
Or in Israel and Palestine where they fight each other;
over borders where their oppositional
faiths share the same Holy Land and
they all share the same desire for freedom.
The 6th pillar, vast, ominous and ever-growing.
Casting long shadows on the West.
Where metaphors of words in books
are custom to bickering amongst
every preacher.
Jihad:
where military vocabulary and scripture
should never mix.
The 5 are strong but the 6th sways precariously
threatening to fall against the other pillars
causing a domino effect of destruction
An ending catastrophe where a Muslim
has no choice but to join the Fatwa
because we are making it so
they are unable to pray or walk
publicly without racial prejudice; and slang offences
Screamed in the streets.
These wars against faith can never win;
believers unafraid to die for
entities.
The war of words where people contextualise
what needs to be left ambiguous; and where
people all want the same thing under differing terminology.
The Old Lie
Bent over from the weight of 80 pounds, dead-legged.
Coughing like water deprived camels,
Trudging forwards, on and on.
Marching male zombies, injured feet limping onwards,
Bloodshot eyes desperately searching for shade.
Head spinning with the speed of propellers.
The sudden hissing of RPG’s…
Cover! Lads, Cover!
Diving for anywhere to hide,
Rifles raised.
Some of the men fumbling on the safety switch,
Battling with bullet chambers, swivelling barrels.
The landscape erupting explosions,
Spitting bodies.
Soldiers to the left blasted off their feet,
Body-limbs falling to the ground with deadening thumps -
Echoing every soldiers mind during sleep.
Sky-speed, adrenaline-high.
Living energy, strength, power, fury.
Every bullet that shreds through the sky whistling, tearing
Bone apart torn limb from limb, torn.
A screaming man - legless- pulls himself from a bloody mass.
His fingernails scarping towards us through the mud:
Lungs about to burst.
And if you could imagine the agonising hours,
waiting for the support team of medics.
Visible only see the white of his eyes,
mouth unable to control the gurgling of blood
erupting lava from his chest.
The pungent smell of the tattered remains of his legs
sizzling in the heat of the desert.
So would you now send our nations hooded young
Away to the desert?
Where the high zest of children ardent for some desperate glory…
Lie.
Dulce…
Et…
Decorum…
Est…
Pro…
Patria…
Mori…
Coughing like water deprived camels,
Trudging forwards, on and on.
Marching male zombies, injured feet limping onwards,
Bloodshot eyes desperately searching for shade.
Head spinning with the speed of propellers.
The sudden hissing of RPG’s…
Cover! Lads, Cover!
Diving for anywhere to hide,
Rifles raised.
Some of the men fumbling on the safety switch,
Battling with bullet chambers, swivelling barrels.
The landscape erupting explosions,
Spitting bodies.
Soldiers to the left blasted off their feet,
Body-limbs falling to the ground with deadening thumps -
Echoing every soldiers mind during sleep.
Sky-speed, adrenaline-high.
Living energy, strength, power, fury.
Every bullet that shreds through the sky whistling, tearing
Bone apart torn limb from limb, torn.
A screaming man - legless- pulls himself from a bloody mass.
His fingernails scarping towards us through the mud:
Lungs about to burst.
And if you could imagine the agonising hours,
waiting for the support team of medics.
Visible only see the white of his eyes,
mouth unable to control the gurgling of blood
erupting lava from his chest.
The pungent smell of the tattered remains of his legs
sizzling in the heat of the desert.
So would you now send our nations hooded young
Away to the desert?
Where the high zest of children ardent for some desperate glory…
Lie.
Dulce…
Et…
Decorum…
Est…
Pro…
Patria…
Mori…
Swear Our Creed
The systematic shaving of heads -
all lined together:
“Sir, yes Sir!”
Staff sergeant paces, licking his lips waiting to mould
minds into steel.
“If you survive training you will be a human weapon. Here, you are all equally
worthless. You will not laugh, you will not cry, you will learn by your number.”
He continues to pace: incessantly screaming at each individual face.
Orders echoing the dormitories.
Marching legs moving in formation trained to walk the exact same pace. One step
Two step.
Forward forward.
“This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend.
It is my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire
my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must
shoot him before he shoots me. I will.…“
Staff Sergeant stands proud in front of 20 men holding weapons.
3 smooth movements -
Assemble.
7 smooth movements -
Dissemble.
Days of hours of running, sweat pouring over exhausted flesh. Constant put downs. Could always do better.
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
The mantra continues. The lessons keep coming. Staff Sergeant slams his fist on the desk
and spits out demands, false lessons in murder.
“If you do not kill you will become dead. You must bring to life your killer instinct,
without a killer instinct you will hesitate. No-one dies without permission.”
Cover your ears with your pillow in the night to stop the little boys from being heard.
“What makes the grass grow? Blood, blood. blood!”
Keeping heaven filled with fresh souls.
The army is robotic.
They are trained indestructible killers,
they are soldiers without emotion,
soldiers without fear.
“My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I
will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I
will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part
of each other. We will…”
Everything sounds easy
until in the midst of strobe lightening and
a flash of firing
you realise you shot your comrad.
Reflecting off the windows hazing vision,
flashing chaos.
War makes the devils work easy.
No-one in training is willing to die to kill you.
Bullets and shrapnel flying past in slow motion,
and you,
start shooting before you aim.
In the midst of the ear splitting noise
It’s hard to decipher a friends death cry
from the screams of an enemy.
“Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country.
We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviours of my life. So be it, until victory
is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace.”
all lined together:
“Sir, yes Sir!”
Staff sergeant paces, licking his lips waiting to mould
minds into steel.
“If you survive training you will be a human weapon. Here, you are all equally
worthless. You will not laugh, you will not cry, you will learn by your number.”
He continues to pace: incessantly screaming at each individual face.
Orders echoing the dormitories.
Marching legs moving in formation trained to walk the exact same pace. One step
Two step.
Forward forward.
“This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend.
It is my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire
my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must
shoot him before he shoots me. I will.…“
Staff Sergeant stands proud in front of 20 men holding weapons.
3 smooth movements -
Assemble.
7 smooth movements -
Dissemble.
Days of hours of running, sweat pouring over exhausted flesh. Constant put downs. Could always do better.
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
The mantra continues. The lessons keep coming. Staff Sergeant slams his fist on the desk
and spits out demands, false lessons in murder.
“If you do not kill you will become dead. You must bring to life your killer instinct,
without a killer instinct you will hesitate. No-one dies without permission.”
Cover your ears with your pillow in the night to stop the little boys from being heard.
“What makes the grass grow? Blood, blood. blood!”
Keeping heaven filled with fresh souls.
The army is robotic.
They are trained indestructible killers,
they are soldiers without emotion,
soldiers without fear.
“My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I
will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I
will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part
of each other. We will…”
Everything sounds easy
until in the midst of strobe lightening and
a flash of firing
you realise you shot your comrad.
Reflecting off the windows hazing vision,
flashing chaos.
War makes the devils work easy.
No-one in training is willing to die to kill you.
Bullets and shrapnel flying past in slow motion,
and you,
start shooting before you aim.
In the midst of the ear splitting noise
It’s hard to decipher a friends death cry
from the screams of an enemy.
“Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country.
We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviours of my life. So be it, until victory
is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace.”
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