he’s not in an amusement gallery anymore
this is it lad
this is war
waved off from Southampton dock
or one of many
in the post is sure the shock
of what is about to unfold
off to Afghanistan or so hes told
no one really knows for sure
except the commanders
divorced from the frontline tally
what is it like to kill a man
such question must swell
such luggage must quell any thought
of family and friend
never under false pretences
he knew the power of rifle
standard issue
can take himself apart in the dark
and he often does
in foxhole cold the desert
dug in
a bunker man
a ration can peeler
a hide the fear under comrade jokes
the squealing lines of laughter
the reaching out feeling of full metal disasters
when leaden slugs hits shoulder blades
no one really wants to fight
just the few
the Taliban man is just like you
pouring tea by campfire stews in fear
just like the lot of you
the massing squat
the khaki lot of you ready now
upon sunrise ready
upon a new day ready
sledgehammer operation
you call on munitions
and battlestations go boom
and you become instilled by the death
and doom
become trapped in your minds room
never showing for pride
before comrade on the same side
annihilation of the enemy
this is not the seaside arcade
these are not the air pistols
on which boyish fantasies were made
this is not a popping soda can grenade
this is real
this is war
that is a door youll never close
even when back in lovers arms
the overthrows of her shall become
insignificant
her love diluted by the pigment
of what you saw
youll never be sane again
or at least theres doubt, cant be sure
the pain will ever leave
the burned images
of dismemberment those Taliban
are like Saturn grammes
they remain in the domain
the realm of the brain, forever
yes, heavier than Saturn you now become
drawn of the face, the echoed mum of war
for feelings were not for a battlefield
adrenaline and cortisol
made an acceptable mess of it all
upon muzzle flash no time
he stashed the doubt away
emblazoned a fighter
in free fall decay
it started when you shot him
started when you departed from poor boyish innocence
mates back home awash in indifference
about heroes welcomes
the banners and flags
and magazine mags are scattered
at home and in theatre alike
the wreckage of you and for what you learn
to dislike, agitated by flashback
disillusioned by media hacks one sided
story's
you saw both side of the tracks
look at your face
it cant relax anymore
did it for me
queen, country
did it for war.