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"the first september" by M.Wynn TOP
"Aftermath" by S.Sassoon
"1916" by an unknown soldier
"the first september"
I find minority is a state of mind. copyright Mark Wynn 2003 "Aftermath" by S.Sassoon "1916" by unknown soldier TOP
When the TV feeds your child always on hate and lies,
With a veiw that might only actually epitimize
Your own life and times and what for,
To buy just one more line 'round before you die?
Like a drone with a bad stagger you swagger
Right to your knees into a stagnant pool.
You soil the tip of your own dirty white silk tie.
You long to lie, so you can with a frown
Wrythe and drown, and purge your mind
and burst your lungs. You reemerge
with a life full of rehydrated thoughts and style.
You regurgitate this sticky love hate,
As you force your mind from state to state.
Then you wait for the tide to rise,
So you can help yourself float off on your very own
Live reality slot of weekly televised time.
And only just then can you grow
Your own wings that carry you to fly
Cross an entire ocean oasis
To a sandy palm covered isle
To live above these swine.
In this overcrowded, underpaid,
Shallow, shadowed fucking sty.
You live to linger a while,
To stay way up on high a mile.
You might even sup on coconuts and crocodile.
All the while forced to slip razor blades
into granny's last apple pie.
Better them then to grow old and die,
Locked away in a single dusty file.
'Cause white or black, no man can live
With a chain around his neck.
All the way 'round then back,
Forever on the same dirty short circular one mile track.
But pay no attention and follow the map,
Lest you look up and see
That there are a group
Who think and talk and act alot like me.
That the time has arrived,
On this next time round I believe,
To strike at the one who attempts to deceive
And weave a blood-soaked tapestry.
To hide the facts from your own eyes
Is not all right and it was given as our tent,
And it was meant that we should fight
That phoney evil red blue and white light of enlightenment.
And if thats where you strive,
Then call to yourself "Why"!
'Round here all these people different shapes and size,
And not a single person think to ask why?
Your not supposed to know
Another one might here your cry.
To testify,
That to the one who risks lives
Might not die happy but he will die.
We all will die why not have a reason to go out giving,
To greet each day living.
I speak and say it's our season.
Why have we not tried
To catch that liar's tongue
Before it comes before us
And split it wide or return that dry rye smile
To his teeth with a kick
And full of rage and pain drain
Some of the wicked blood
From his eye or his throat
Or better yet his chest
Clear the room and let an ounce of lead fly past
Through his vest on its way as we head west.
And there aint no secret society or service
That could stop and deter us.
As we burst forth with a force that could
Drive all the enemies of humanity to hide,
And swallow their pride,
Their pride this time!
They've already tried mine
To celebrate mans past transgression
On any other man from the dawn of time
With a democracy based on hate,
That singes the brow,
That plows the furrows through the mind,
And shouts out WRONG,
And unlevels the load.
But the load I carry might be downtown
To explode my frustration
On those thugs and clowns at the station.
And as I die you might even catch why,
But that's just another fact that wont be televised!
No sense owning the title to a land of lies.
Your best bet, set on yur ass and imbibe your grave,
and listen to this years repackaged bluegrass compilation trash.
Till my dying day I will be to pray,
But also heard to say this country tis not of me, a land of liberty maybe,
But also home of a freak.
A land continually destroyed wrecked and rebuilt
Upon the backs of slaves and subjects!
Sure you'll learn to dine and dash,
'Cause to call this the land of plenty is just a little bit rash.
Lest you feed life on those old seeds that bleed strife
From those dying from their vacations in the Middle East.
Through bodies and bombs you can wade.
Searching for you dinner all day,
But you unconsciously play toward the tags and the faces.
Sure you can look away but know this fact jack...
They all say "American Made"!
If the truth can be let calling,
Why do you continually strive to just get by?
"Why" is when men realize that the path to freedom
Is not to be found in a woman's thighs.
And not with a twist of lime hold the ice...
Although I can see by you smile you thinks you sly.
And all the hos that know just sigh
'Cause each night one might suffer the death
Of a hundred guys in the eyes of time.
And you even know that aint know lie.
The things that don't get better can just be buried
Under their decomposing piles of information.
This man molds his story with his very own worries.
Not from my point of sight,
No reason to fly that direction in a hurry over night.
I promise you
He will not be a blessing in a stately three piece disguise.
As you stake your claim to his sunny side of life and lies.
You may try but in the skies...
This guy may go a path with a yellowy white eye at times,
But these eyes have also seen that on the flip-side,
The sun's also on the rise.
If allowed to magnify the level of catasrophe,
And to truly legitimize the trouble by the tide of our apathy.
That is why they intentionally tranquilize your mind.
A brain like spongy rubber passive to the cries.
I find minority is a state of mind.
Have you forgotten yet?...
For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...
Have you fogotten yet?...
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz-
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-
And dawn coming; dirty white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"
Do you remember the hour of din before the attack-
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the strecher-cases lurching back
with dying eyes and lolling heads-those ashen gray
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?..
Look up, and swear by green of the sping that you'll never forget.
TOP
Exhaustion,
The fight rages on behind the trenches.
The sounds of bullets, explosions and screams assault my ears.
The putrid stench of week old death, burnt powder
and the stink of waste, assault my nose.
Dead comrades, dead soldiers, dead horses,
Images of death assault my dreams.
I rest in a mud hole, a pre-dug grave.
The other side’s no better off.
Our enemies are at home asleep in their bed.
