To live for, yearn for, that glorious killer,
that brassy pointed barrel filler,
to kiss the sun, embrace a darkness,
to kill the bystanders, to silence a witness.
a cleaned and oiled and slicing death
that explodes in you and steals your breath
a thing you “wield” instead of “use”
to produce a horror that makes the news
and gets glamourised by Hollywood
in silly tales to win an award
and unthinking plaudits from boring cynics
who ignore the truth behind the edits
of children’s parents dead and gone
and mother’s children who wont come home.
Marching men who sound out songs
and epithets like the “happy throng”
the “band of brothers” and “alpha force”
ignore the facts as a matter of course
that war is bad and people die
and tragedy is what makes us cry
not actor’s looks or the jutting chins
of handsome heroes with perfect grins.