Poetry (or rather, a close approximation)

Suicide bombers don’t wake up one day and decide die and in doing do, hurt others
They don’t wake up and decide to tear apart families, destroy the hearts of mothers
The means, targets and opportunity require bitterness, requires planning
They require the weak to be led by the contemptuous and the cunning
Somebody with a personal agenda and a contempt of human life
Will ask, extort or demand from the weak, the vulnerable, or stupid a sacrifice
Thousands of years ago pagan priests demanded a heart to appease a god
Frauds and fanatics imposed their order, and over the beliefs of others rode roughshod
They used a knife or fire to create a spectacle, to hold a heart high above all in their hand
Nowadays a pagan priest in disguise uses explosives to tear the heart from the land.

Through hidden tears which cause glassy eyes
When you bid farewell you hide your fears
In case your eyes tell, and so you create the lies
To avoid two sets of tears.

For she knows of your comrades who have gone before
and that their smiles and laughter will never return
From a barren godforsaken place of the immortally poor
A sacrifice for a government’s next term.

In the suffocating heat you think of her touch
Think of the first time she sought out your hand
As down another dusty dangerous track you trudge
As your boots kick up talcum powder sand.

As the aeroplane banks to land
And for the first time in months, cool green, not hot sand
Your breath catches and sticks in your throat
And the next breathe or two Is choked out.

No more being brave, no more hidden tears
Her heart against yours and deep sighs
She hugs a welcome back, no more fears
Relief and love, and until the next tour, no more lies.

Barrack Block
Spending a tour as a singly, living in the barrack block
For your civvie partner who stays over it’s a shock
The toilets full of somebodies else’s smell and waste
They return to your room, nose wrinkled in distaste
With a look like that, tonight it won’t be love, but sex
Smelling someone else’s shit has that effect

Mixed ablutions show that ladies like a strong curry
Especially when you’re sitting in the next cubicle smelling the slurry
When they splatter their load and you get hit by the foul Smell
Suddenly no matter how attractive she is she’s now humanised and no longer a bombshell

Shower and toilet walls contemptuous smeared with boogies
Little green trails of snot sometimes freckled with red and black blood
Pulled from the nose by a too big finger, not by sneezes
In their homes, on their walls do they smear this green and bloody mud?

Promiscuity is discouraged but discretely approved and all is kept quiet
There’s a loss of morals as married people get drunk, ignore their vows and screw
Some personnel promoted too young, separated from family, bored and chasing a liquid diet
The bar is kept open, music played loudly all night by the selfish few
Yet they are the ones who moan the loudest when collective punishment is due

Issue boots on cheaply built stairs echo and thump
those who live next to them kept awake and permanently have the hump
selfish self-closing spring-loaded fire doors that slam
by occupants who are too stupid to think, or care, or give a damn

No comments:

Post a comment