Wartime
His soul is a bootprint.
He feels the tug of war like it’s mating season. Gunfire is applause. To him, jeans and a t-shirt are camouflage. Bullets undo the stitches on the scarecrow people that don’t frighten him as they come apart. The crows come. Bullets that whiz close to him are laughed at. The ones that nick his flesh are admonished like they’re naughty pets that he can’t help but love despite their precocious ways. His cologne is gun oil.
It isn’t sport or glory. It isn’t a bad childhood. It isn’t the dehumanizing process of the training barracks. It isn’t the need to belong. It isn’t the lost soul diving into the order of the command process because water makes more sense to a fish than suffocating air.
Eyes are dinner plates and he’s angry. Children’s heads line up like pool balls and it’s his turn to break. Towns become Ikea furniture disassembled by gods of fire.
The time machine in his fist shudders villages back to the stone age and makes grown-ups into babies before shoving them back to that place were they existed before they were born.
Time is a clock attached to a bomb. Mine. Keys belong in grenades. He triggers memories, knife and easy. He has a barrel of fun. He has a full clip of retorts. Bullet-point proposals echo forth. His responses are automatic. He sees the future through a sight. Darkness falls before his night vision. He’s a gas.
His 20 is the LZ. He looks at his 12 and stays aware of his 6, throwing flame in a game of catch. It’s a barbeque and the main course is Enemy.
There’s a foot locker of never-opened medals at the bottom edge of the bed hasn’t slept in for years. It’s full. The brass doesn’t even bother sending out the hardcopies anymore.
He’s a rumour the size of Belgrade making homes in towns that become famous shortly before they become craters.
There is no fear in his laugh. Perhaps the scariest thing about him is his rationality.
C’est le Vietnam. C’est l’armour. Que cera serrated.
Soldier of Scorchin’. Mercy Nary. Assassinner.
He has a deck of cards rolled up under one tight shoulder sleeve and a pack of cigarettes under the other. Both have skulls and crossbones on them. He has time for neither.
This is not a book. He is real.
tags
He feels the tug of war like it’s mating season. Gunfire is applause. To him, jeans and a t-shirt are camouflage. Bullets undo the stitches on the scarecrow people that don’t frighten him as they come apart. The crows come. Bullets that whiz close to him are laughed at. The ones that nick his flesh are admonished like they’re naughty pets that he can’t help but love despite their precocious ways. His cologne is gun oil.
It isn’t sport or glory. It isn’t a bad childhood. It isn’t the dehumanizing process of the training barracks. It isn’t the need to belong. It isn’t the lost soul diving into the order of the command process because water makes more sense to a fish than suffocating air.
Eyes are dinner plates and he’s angry. Children’s heads line up like pool balls and it’s his turn to break. Towns become Ikea furniture disassembled by gods of fire.
The time machine in his fist shudders villages back to the stone age and makes grown-ups into babies before shoving them back to that place were they existed before they were born.
Time is a clock attached to a bomb. Mine. Keys belong in grenades. He triggers memories, knife and easy. He has a barrel of fun. He has a full clip of retorts. Bullet-point proposals echo forth. His responses are automatic. He sees the future through a sight. Darkness falls before his night vision. He’s a gas.
His 20 is the LZ. He looks at his 12 and stays aware of his 6, throwing flame in a game of catch. It’s a barbeque and the main course is Enemy.
There’s a foot locker of never-opened medals at the bottom edge of the bed hasn’t slept in for years. It’s full. The brass doesn’t even bother sending out the hardcopies anymore.
He’s a rumour the size of Belgrade making homes in towns that become famous shortly before they become craters.
There is no fear in his laugh. Perhaps the scariest thing about him is his rationality.
C’est le Vietnam. C’est l’armour. Que cera serrated.
Soldier of Scorchin’. Mercy Nary. Assassinner.
He has a deck of cards rolled up under one tight shoulder sleeve and a pack of cigarettes under the other. Both have skulls and crossbones on them. He has time for neither.
This is not a book. He is real.
tags