Creep up on
your most cherished memories
and slip the knife
up under the ribs.
Hand over the mouth,
lower them to the floor,
and let them bleed out.
Find the place where comfort
rests in sloth and solace.
From your hide
calculate your dope for it.
Anticipate the target,
for it is a well known
creature of habit,
and put a bullet in it
when the time is right.
Murder what has made you.
There is only weakness there.
These are the things that make you;
soft and unaware.
Now,
your enemies surround you,
but you still think
that noble defeat
is better than war.
You’ve forgotten
what so many fought for.
Kill the voice inside your head
that draws up images
of old, nostalgic days,
for there are none of those
in the future you have made.
I’ve heard it said,
“Revolution isn’t poetry”,
but I beg to differ,
as I recall all that made me suffer.
Burn the suburbs;
we won’t need them anymore.
Where we’re going
we’re not coming home.
I don’t think many of us know
what it takes
to make a world
like the one we’ve known.
I pray the never will,
as I lay
my last romantic notion
in the dirt.
I think it’s almost past time
for hoping for better;
maybe now,
we prepare for the worst.
HG – 2021
