- For the Kiddies Gunned Down -
My God! Are we stupid or what?
But that’s OK, that’s to be expected,
With our four percent of sociopaths
And one percent of psychopaths
And their devotees.
That’s OK, that’s to be expected
From a population half of which
Limbos below “average” intellect
The other half is not much higher.
But it stops being so,
When we start gunning down the kiddies,
Our own and those of other mothers
And don’t freeze, horrified.
But puff up with pompous jargon
Of fundamental rights and national security
And stupid excuses
To go on killing kiddies, here and there.
We’ve become idol-worshippers
Of TV’s blind eye, first
Of the portable phone that brings ill fortune, next
Lastly, of this new hysteria nestled in our hands
Sliding, locking, potent: fit for profane worship.
Stroking the perfect curve of semi-auto handles,
Swiping smooth plastic cards to get more,
As if anyone, as if Rambo,
Could grip more than one to live and die by.
Snap up hundred-round magazines
And bullets packed golden-shiny by the box
Hoard them in fantasy display rooms,
Or in armored closets cold, dark and dry.
When the shit hits the fan,
Who will be the first to get gunned down, you idiot?
By the worst, set loose on their hunt,
Who will take the pick of your weapons cache?
And who did you intend to cut down
With your dozens of dicks, long and short?
Was it a bad guy gunning down the innocent?
Or victims of your own choosing?
Did you dream of becoming a flame-fisted hero
Set between the innocents and their fate
At the hands of some gunned-up monster
That yours will gun down bleeding?
Or you, jealous of that monster’s daring,
In your heart of hearts,
Dreaming of how you could be equally cruel
As merciless to yourself as to others?
Absolutely free, harnessed to kamikaze liberty
Beyond rules, feelings, good and evil,
Transcending your cheesy life,
And the pathos of your carnage worship.
From the trivial to the sublime
The same death wish has taken hold of you
The ultimate passion only got from Viagra
No virility left except to murder.
Godlike, like a damned fool
Or quite childlike, at the opposite end of stupid,
Up the Mishishitty without a paddle.
Or clutching the wrong end of it to your breast.
After huffing seventy years of leaded gas
Thanks to GM of Interurban-wrecking fame.
Enough brain poison for WW2 and those to follow
And strategic idiocies since.
Management fit for nothing
But Third-World misery
Unsuited to manage anything
But Third-World decay.
Could your secretariat of nested bureaus,
Summon your worst nightmare
To multiply under CENTCOM’s lash
And reach out and devour you?
Demon-like, half-sentient Death Birds
Inking shadows over our enemies
Double tapping their weddings,
Funerals and last, quiet suppers.
Dragon’s teeth cast to downrange winds
Across whole continents and lands,
Ten new enemies sworn to wreck and ruin,
For every one we debone and fry.
And we call ourselves master Assassins
No boasts, no threats
Just sudden death and the wail of survivors
Delivered to any front door on Earth.
Even though, after all the steps we’ve taken
Down this dark and winding trail,
Its twilight dead-end will reveal
That all we held dear is gone.
In any case, the results will be the same:
The kiddies will be gunned down in our name
And our turn and our kids’ turn will come next, sure thing
For such sins do not go unanswered.
- Pour les gosses abattus -
Mon Dieu! Qu’on est con !
Mais nous bombons de jargon pompeux
De droits fondamentaux et de sécurité nationale
Et d’authentiques sottises
Pour continuer d abattre des gosses, ci et là.
du portable qui nous rend malheur,
Ou une armoire blindée, sombre, sec et froid.
Quand l’hécatombe échouera,
Qui sera le premier abattu, crétin ?
Par les pires enfin lâchés à l’affût,
le trie de ta cache d’armes ?
Que les tiennes abattront
tout en sang ?
Ambitionnant d’être également cruel
soixante-dix ans d'essence plombée
multiplier sous le fouet de CENTCOM
Le long et large de
continents et de paysages,