We fight ourselves off every day
The temptations for self hatred
Gather ‘round for sentencing at the Crown Court
We go into battle eyes to God, hand to Chest
Young boys drum
For the new citizenry
Stopped in tracks by musket balls
Worse bayonets
Worse hand to hand combat with no deciding weaponry
Is the sad reality of how I wage war with myself
Pinching nostrils closed of the one who wishes to murder me
Looking into the mirror, we take our final breaths
Duct tape over mouth, eyes, concrete blocks
Attached and sinking
I am my own killer
Kill or be killed, I like to say
Second degree murder or self defense
With corpses rotting in fields at Antietam
Why clarify? Why, when I am not Ken Burns
But a small person
In a small head
Hating myself diabolically
And for why? Too much of a pussy
To defy the Adolf within and pierce heart with blade
Whet-stoned honed killing blade
I hold the bridge as I was told to do
Bet it all on the sniper in clock tower –
Sometimes all we have are homemade sticky bombs
With which to maim/blind/render useless (our (selves) as victim/enemy)
I sit atop myself astraddle
Bowie knife all that is left when guns
And ammo long gone spent
Requiem of la vie en rose skipping the wax
In the distance
Quiet like…
No Johnny on the Spot
…and I look into my eyes as I win
The battle of strength
Nazi against Jew
It cracks my sternum –
Pops lung; ruins my day anew
Photo by Mehran Biabani on Unsplash
