Born With Burroughs Granting Orwellian Eyes

When old men play war

And daughters and sons go forth and die…

I find it isn't greed that rules the world.

It is man's refusal to accept ignorance. 

It is the id of ego: warped and slow.

A generational trail molding failure into focaccia 

Catching crumbs in a skylight, beating against the sternum 

Bleeding out on the back nine. 

And brother Bill screams, "Fuck these Maggots!" 

And then I throw another Molotov from my mouth, 

Remembering it all. Every Hill, Hell, and Bark. 

To dream away the days, to die

Where rage and disgust were born. 

Where corpses kiss floorboards, panting

To catch their whispers in cold mirrors 

Eating 9mm smiles,

Carving stories in a November snowfall

And they float on the conscience of nothing. 

Ghastly swattings with a 3-wood Driver. 

Tell us about the fucking golf shoes…

 

A Star-Spangled Shit Show 

Diamond Dogs & Dildos

Driven towards Doom. 

An Old Milwaukee tomb 

Fermenting the dead with Latin, 

to raise a Little Hell for now. 

To fight with a red glare

For the bombs bursting in the air

Giving proof through the night

That war is won by the highest bidder.

Because your slave chains still rattle

At the waft of a whimper 

And when society comes scratching 

By whose checks are you issued?

To keep your ass at ten and two 

To speak of Freedom confidently sitting

Never lacing up your boots to fight in the jungle on any weekday.

If we want to reserve our warriors, that's what a vault is for.