War

It's impossible

to get the mind

to stop playing tricks.

Flicks of Bics

are sicker

than 666.

To me,

it's just a lighter

and just a bunch of numbers,

but it's related to war,

and cats

driving over-sized Hummers.

One object

isn't different

from another,

and one war is the same

as the other,

it's all still letters and numbers.

The brain feeds

on cellular cancer,

scraping up change,

but still getting the same answer.

Silly rabbits

hop on your dashboard,

playing tricks for kids,

since the days of the Golden Horde.

You flash forward

to 2009.

Another number

with letters that don't read between the line.

It's all brain food,

clogging up your arteries.

Your brain cells have been fed

off death so heartily.

The letters and numbers

are a matrix of gray matter.

It sinks deep in every nerve

every time you see blood splatter.

Overseas or at home,

you make your home a big death rite,

every time you open your arms,

I know it's time to say Goodnight.

Every time I go home,

you're flashing lights in my face.

Every time I go out,

you're spraying my eyes with mace.

It's like a dangling carrot,

to distract and to lead,

full of Arsenic vitamins

so your eyes can't see.

Cloudy skies

full of dust and debris,

leave metallic water

for cyanide tea.

Brothers and sisters

in a sick game of twister,

on a mat of glass,

and blood for your blister.

Everyone's fed hate,

like pieces of sticky candy,

pasting your teeth,

tasting sweet and sandy.

It's a mish-mash so morbid

that the coroner passed it.

We're chewing clods of rock

all covered in plastic.