We both snap awake, in the cold light of morning.
Cannons, gunfire, in the distance, grow ever closer.
We hold close, knowing we have to leave.
Knowing we have no place to go.
Dressed, and carrying all that we can that we need,
we leave our home, our entire world, behind.
There are no friends in this war, only enemies.
Both sides will kill us on sight.
We walk for days, not knowing where to go to,
where we will be safe again, if that’s even real.
We take turns sleeping and taking the watch,
with just a rickety .22 and one box of bullets.
End of another day, haven’t outrun the cannons,
but we lie side by side, looking up at the heavens,
and awed by it’s austere and cold beauty.
They are simple gods who do not intervene.
No eden in the forest, no quiet sleep of death.
We make our way and we make something of a life,
in the wilderness, glad to have love and each other.
But you can’t escape the world. There’s always another war.
The silvery moon shines through my window.
Where you are tonight, my love, I don’t know.
A war in a far off place took you from my side.
Who ever knew, that this world was so wide?
The old bar on the end of my run down street,
the familiar place, where every night we’d meet.
Beer and pool and laughter, and once, a soft kiss.
The future that that kiss promised is my emptiness.
The moon shines on all the world with it’s cold light.
The dream we hoped for is lost, nothing to put it right.
And the bar is just a hollow shell haunted by your ghost.
I lay in my bed, in the dark, with dreams, the tears they host.
Come back to me.
Wildflowers blowing in an open field,
heads bowed to the ground
and whipped back to exalt the sky.
They know not why they grow
or why they bloom
or why so many had to die.
Those who knew are gone,
buried deep beneath the field.
The young don’t know, no do they try too.
The wildflowers grow, and lover’s now wallk,
and the ghosts remain silent.
he cannons roar forever in the distance, there is never quiet.
The war’s been over for years. It will never end.
Clay faces. Lost limbs. Shattered brains.
Most though, you can’t tell by looking.
They smile. They laugh. They make love and make babies.
Babies that will grow up and become corrupt and be stained in battle.
La. La. La.
I am here, laying in cold and golden grass, looking up at the stars.
A demon rode me to the ground, soft brown earth that got drawn into my lungs.
Dirt plants seeds in lungs scarred by smoke and noxious, burning trash.
I am in the ground, and I am watching cartoons with my little girl.
Her teeth will be pulled out, one by one, at the ceremony.
They take her eyes and eye teeth to swallow thin gruel of glamour.
La. La. La.
I take a hit of the shit killing me, that I cannot do without.
It’s not even fun. I fought to make an angel in fogged school bus glass.
Some rich brat’s hot breath erased it, like it was nothing.
No angel, only his heaving hyena laugh and wet and barren Wildwood winter.
I ate brains for that brat as a man, because he owned the flag factory.
I did not line my sites for sake of the mother of my daughter, I learned too late.
La. La. La.
My stand by my daughter as we a hold a childish and deadly serious funeral.
Checkers, the tuxedo kitten has passed on, sailing to Valhalla in a Barbie Doll box.
She is consolable, but chokes her tears, Godly Men’s Prideful Hands strangling another heart.
I read from Revelation 21, hoping we’ll cry out the poison forever on His robes.
A cross of sticks, finer than a king’s golden one, for she has a true faith.
True faith and a righteous heart has a way of getting you killed.
He better be there to wipe away her tears. He better heal what this world will do to her.
The swallow sings: “La. La. La.”
The ashes almost look like snow from my window.
They almost glitter in the blue haze of the TV glow.
She is tall and strong, she is the angel who resists.
She is the open hand. She is the mighty closed fists.
Winter will be with us through August, what more?
On TV she rights what’s broken, brave on that score.
I sleep too much, and the sun has gone to the clouds.
The war is over, but it’s fires and bombs still shrouds.
Mass produced dreams told us it was all for the win.
But the days are cold, and hope and love are so thin.
The angel on the TV, I still want to be, though I am frail.
Maybe I can find my wings or the simple, true Holy Grail.
I am frail and failing, but I still dream of an angel on TV.
I still dream of something more than a dead, poisoned sea.
> A nice neighborhood. A pool in the back.
> Too bad the world is ashes.
> It’s winter all year. Ashes are the endless snow.
> They went and did it. Those cruel, arrogant men.
> They went and did it, and we pay the price.
> A nice house once, now falling rotting, civilization
> lost in fire and cruelty and war, great men’s ego
> making a ruin of all the world.
> Our pallet bed, keeping each other warm, and hoping.
> I kiss the nape of her neck, bury my face in her hair.
> Our starter home. Maybe we can still make a life.
> A life in ashes, but a life all the same.
Twilight on the endless steppes, as the sun hazed out into starlight, the tall, golden wheat whipping in a cool, early spring wind. The endless horizon offered no where to hide from the eyes of Father The Sun or Mother The Moon. Up in the sky they would always see me.
A lifetime ago I had been a young man here, a soldier at war. It was all for the homeland. All for all the helpless depending on us back home. To stop the mad, demonic man coming from the east, like the sun.
The eye cracked, and out came fire and screams and the hateful stench of flesh left to rot. We’re all ugly when we’re dead.
Like a steel blade, I was forged and hardened in flames, and I knew what I had to do, and I knew for whom I fought.
I fought for her. Her angelic light kept me warm as the winter stole away so many, more than flames and fire. Cold is patient, like Mother The Moon, who wants her children back home again.
Her angelic light was real and decadent, and I knew we would both make it to summer, when the demonic men would be cast out again, the possessing spirits pacing in the underworld for another time.
The war ended. She was not there. The light was a mischievous spirit who used me for it’s own ends. Father The Sun had claimed her while she bathed. She was an angel with him. Never again for me.
And she danced up in the sky with Father, having forgotten the realm of weight and flesh. She did not even remember our kiss. Before the war, we had sat by the river, slim and silver. We had been enchanted, somehow.
Enchantment leaves scars.
She had kissed me. The last hurrah for innocence. It was warmth without lust. Passion without hunger. Peace in a lover’s touch.
Enchantment breeds hunger for more. More magic. More release from weight. More wonders to soothe a broken heart.
I became as dissolute as any drunkard. I chased that moment forever, with any girl who’d welcome me, into her arms or bed.
Nothing else mattered.
All the while she danced, having for free what I got in dregs and ruined rags. She was with Father, and she was adored and made weightless.
Old, with nothing to show for it, but the words made as hymns to lover, pale moonlight reflected from her in the sun. Words made to capture a moment, a high. So much useless amber.
Old and tired, and out here on the steppes, where Father and Mother can both see me as they come halfway after the divorce. They see me. They see what I have done.
Old, out here on the steppes as that bitter wind flows and cries and gets deeper into you skin and bones than any dream, lover or whore, to the very place all light is kept.
Old, and it all left a crystal tower that is wonderous, but whose foundation in sand is washed away in a single hour. What is an hour to Father? What is an hour to Mother?
And Mother comes down for me. The trick she played for her own magic. Making me love the girl Father claimed. Taking me away to be in the cold.
I’ll remember her in the sun. She will be blind to me in the moon. The weight will drag me to the bottom of the sea.
The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.
The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.
The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.
It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.