Out here in the sand
when you don’t know who’s the Enemy and who’s a friend
and it f**ks with your head,
It’s hard to tell
What you’re fighting for
By the fourth tour,
When you’ve seen the Enemy’s father ask
“Why have you Killed my son?”
then you come and you tell Me
Who won
my wrist curls back
I feel the stick weighing
in my hand
as I propel it forward
to strike the head
of it.
the head vibrates
violently
shaking
trembling.
I cock back my foot
and give it
a swift kick
to the face.
Not once but
two
three
four
times.
After another
stick to the face,
I rear back and
crash into it.
As my cymbal simmers,
my guitarist glances back
and nods
as if to say.
“you killed it”
When the result is Success,
How can I be Wrong,
And How can there be Progress
If we Never change the Song?
How can Someone See
If their Eyes are Halfway shut,
And How can something Be
If it’s throat is Always Cut?
What makes Good,
And What makes Bad,
If Holy-men Killed, would
Criminals be Sad?
If there were no Bloodshed
Then Nations could Not Rise,
And How could Trees Grow
If Nothing ever Dies?
Lubricity and Deviance
Metastasize like a Cancer,
A Mournful,
Blissful Grievance
Smiling with
the Answer
The man killed his only love
the only thing more beautiful than a blossoming foxglove
with one swift move he sent her away
and began a period of slow decay
and that was the end of his ladylove
who flew away gracefully like a dove
You don’t know what you got
until it’s gone
now with nothing left over which to fawn
it was hard for him to carry on
a love once lost
is hard to again find
you must hold tight
to what you deem devine
for in an instant it may be lost forever
Original Poetry 