My Gold Star

My view on war, and those who seek glory, or benefit, from horror, indignity, and hate.

My minds sword is sharper than the jaws of death itself

To trade blade blows with an eternity like a mortal jihad abomination

I decipher the flight of lycanthropes opening oceans of prose  

Evangelicals dancing on heaven’s throat, choking up devils, spitting out scripture

From lips of lit wicker biting the lithium silence with a mouthful of venom, beyond the bondage of comprehension

The suspension of renegade engines that have bleed centuries of heartbeats thumping against the road

Like it is the path to enlightenment, like we are the awakened and everyone else is living in a dream

Like we know better than them

Like we are better than them

Like God says sorry to the parents of the poor b******s we maimed

And who are they to say we aren’t glorious?

Who’s to say that we aren’t death whispering the Holy Spirit in the ears of clerics?

Through veneers of tyranny, through armies lobotomizing society

Who’s to say that I am not beautiful, in my camo uniform?

With a gun in hand, and a God on my side, am I not divine?

Am I not divination in flesh and blood, bone cold-hearted creation?

When I vomit bullets and spit scripture out of my trigger finger, is the blood on the canvas not the purest fire of the soul?

Will these mangled corpses not show the blue souled cryogenic Armageddon I carved from ebony memories?

Am I the art of an explosion? A yellow melancholy celebration, there for an instant, gone?

Leaving nothing behind but empty words for a lifetime of dead silence in the loudest pitch black void of white noise moments  of a split second's threshold

A sacrifice for a poltergeist, a masochistic apparition beckoning the spectres of dead man who gave their lives for glory, cemeteries of vengeance neverending 

Am I not the green ivory of a smiling chimera barricaded aimlessly like infinite infantry unsympathetic to the nuclear medicine?

Elevated bathing blatantly in the hatred ever faithful like a wraith of danger forsaken?

Am I not a dagger in the side of life, the thorn of the rose, the gravel spiked by my barbeque, the earth tasting its own flesh suffocating juggernauts?

Avian firecrackers vernacular acronyms evacuated in the dark side of sky vibrant like a sunrise crystalized?

The last bang for your buckshot, led bullets in the pages of all my rage, am I not meant something?

Because if I sold my soul, is my star, not gold?

 

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.