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The poet & the General
The militant man lives
in the ancient skull
of Darwinism, growing thicker
and duller in time. The moment
he was waned from mother’s milk,
he learned to piss on the others.
He plays with his dick as if
it were a killing tool also.
In the end, the militant man shrinks
like all the breathing creatures
no longer in need of air.
His mind shrinks to the size of a rusty bullet.
His vision shrinks into the grave
in the eyebrows of a black bird.
The poet, on the other hand,
never forgets to bury the dead birds,
carefully wiping off the blood from their beaks.
Maybe a prayer or two
whispered into the delicate
ears of the unmoving bodies.
The poet goes on
pondering the meaning
of all these, and hopelessly
living in the last ray of hope
the militant man promised to kill.
:4/16/05
[art: by "The Bloody Sunday Painter"]
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