I Struggle

I struggle with our
Newspapered-hate,
Word-wounded
Reaction inside:

Bile-rise, a gut-rush,
Overweight,
Then, in quiet times,
Modified.

We strafe children,
Keeping no score;
Youth sacrificed
By both sides.

Bloodied-hands
Piling more souls,
Under morte-mercy,
Of a higher command.

Here masked men
Plot death on our streets,
And europe mouths
A mute caveat;

A former leader’s
Guilt we seek,
But Blair bombs
Chilcott, flat.

I do not suggest
We never learn,
As facts pile,
Unabridged:

But, do remember:
oil will burn,
Thus, we’re obliged
To piss on the rich.

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