SACRAMENTAL SHRAPNEL

(WARNING: some parts of this poem are repulsively obscene, only because polite language cannot convey the contempt I feel for its subject--Air Force personnel who like to "autograph" bombs.)


Like the occasional killer who carves
his initials on a raped pregnant belly
before hate-honed and lust-tempered blade slashes,
slices guts, splashes semen, shit, and heart's blood,
(patriots shouldn't be squeamish: think of
cheap cheeseburgers soaked in mustard, ketchup,
and mayonnaise), probably giggling like him,
the bomb-loader, the onward Christian soldier,
scrawls and scribbles his slogans on death's wombs,
sleek clustery eggs pregnant with "bomblets,"
(they rhyme with "omelets": enjoy your breakfast!)
each wrapped in bright yellow in time for Christmas,
from the land of the free and the home of the brave,
tagged by warehouse heroes "Christ wants you -- dead,"
"Kill a Muslim for Jesus," "Allah sucks."


The Afghan boy seeking a toy finds one that
slices guts, splashes semen, shit, and heart's blood,
(flag-wavers don't puke) butchers arms, feet, and legs,
hurling fresh meat scraps to the fat dogs of war.
Like corkscrews they rip-twist through balls and cunts,
perforating bowels and now screamless lungs,
letting the Sangre Noir of tomorrows
bubble into the poisoned, sterile earth.
(ONE WHO IS DYING OF THIRST CANNOT SHED TEARS).
Somewhere a fragment lies hidden in bones,
dried Muslim blood hiding graffito, "JesUS."
*********************

THE WORST LIAR IS SOMEONE WHO HIDES FROM THE TRUTH.