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