Untitled (Title suggestions welcome)

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

War bots modeled after x-box controls,
from the high to the low, maintaining.
Apocalypse Now, Captain please,
a pale face knotted, one last swig of Jim Bean.

Revolution is live, no cutting these scenes,
everybody plays soldier till the bullets
start to scream. And Death hums by, shrieking
ancient lullabies, two blinks of an eye, while
Cerberus snarls, “Don’t you know the smell
of warm gunpowder perfume?” If not, son,
You’ll know it all too soon.”

Hold your breath as it floats up your nose. No slipping here –
By nightfall, this valley’s grove will be flooded with other throes.
Excuse the rows of strangely contorted bodies that lie, resting,
and the bloated brown-streaked limbs, homeless, getting more
lost amidst the bellowing desert sand. Enjoy the silence of
the boom, the momentary reprieve from green noise,
sucking up the sinking cries, an empty vacuum.

Watch for the ambushers, too – waiting by the roadside;
As familiar grins with tattered teeth flicker fake smiles,
and land mines sparkle under feet, fireworks on the fourth of July.


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