Ammo Poems

I AM TIRED OF BEING NICE

I am tired. 
Usually in a “life has sapped itself out” 
But that isn’t what this is about. 

I. Am. Tired. 
Of my stupid styrofoam smile
Squeaking under pressure all the while. 
 
I am tired. 
Of being walkedranmoppedraked overthroughon. 
And of being treated as dumb spawn or clueless pawn. 

I am calm, patient, quiet, KIND. 
In the midst of grossness others spew against and on my mind. 
However. My still hand does NOT mean
That I don’t find your way of existing obscene. 
I may not lift my finger, 
But damn does wavering will barely linger. 
I am so tired of tulips and fields and eggshells.  
I am ready for mortars, more ammo, some bombshells. 
I am so tired of being the go-to-friend. 
You know I’ll be there in the end. 
I am so tired of “can I, may I, if it’s not too much”
After a while, doesn’t tired become the crutch? 
Tired, exhausted, drained, and used. 
Perhaps from the next I must recuse 
Myself not because interests conflicted, 
But rather because you don’t deserve a finger lifted. 
I am so tired of being my warmth of fiery nice. 
I’m so tempted to just let it all go. 
Be discompassionate ice.

Stimulation

Hot coffee
black coffee
really has the means
when I sup but half a cup
to make me feel
quite full of beans
only one requirement tho'
no decaf if you please
and altho' born in Kenya
where the coffee grows
why it's called
'a cup of Joe'
I'm sure I do not know
but
hot coffee
black coffee
is the best ammo
when I do a mug or two
to give me the right
get up and go

Guns and Ammo

Bullets come from the dead,
To kill the innocent;
For the injured,
Arrows lead to life -

PTSD

PTSD

massive explosion
fireball lights up the dark sky
screams for the medic
cries for mother
torn bodies lying at my feet
snap and pop of burning ammo assaults my ears
smell of burnt flesh fresh in my nose
I am frozen in place, I can’t help anyone,
my mouth moves but I can’t speak
I alone am left alive.

I awake in my bed, trembling and sobbing
sweat running in torrents down my body
my hands shaking.
All tell me I am lucky
to be the only survivor.
I am helpless, lost and alone
no one understands.

When Animals Attack

Gila monster broke out of his cage,
stole some ammo and Pappy’s twelve gauge.
On a low grassy knoll, he
dispatched the anole
in a cold-blooded, reptilian rage.

Its Raining Cats and Dogs

My leader has spoken once again
I listen with my one ear, on the right

I cut the evil left one off
to honour the wisest man of payoffs 
who almost gave up his life for me 
all so that he keeps his private jet
and keeps America free

now he has spoken more wise words
eat cats and dogs, I know at first seems absurd
he's never been wrong, ever before
so off I went in me pickup over to the pound
it seemed to warm the volunteers hearts
that I took all strays, a la carte

all this time been eating the wrong sort of critters
squirrels and possum and the occasional pigeon
well shhh about cousin Jed's little pet hamsters
tasty buggers was all that matters

my leader though has given me a new diet
so now I eat dogs, and for desert then the cats
he was right, as he always is
tasty son of guns, even better than my rats

now if Trump was from down under and I swear this true
pretty sure Id be having some BBQ Kangaroo

I am just proud to wave my American guns
making America great, eating one pet at a time
now do not try and stop me, I have more ammo
than you illegal immigrants have pennies and dimes

Meant For A Rooftop Rimas Dissolutas

Laying in bed with a pillow 
solitary holds a teardrop
under the radio’s thumb;
Turn it up the rhythm’s flowing;

Now I’m ready I’ve got ammo,
that fire song meant for a rooftop;
Never again will I feel numb,
no matter how things are going;

I’ll bet on that Summer anthem
to take away reality’s sting.

The Gun Shop

The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun

 a “trophy-bagger” in its rack, 
 a loud-mouth predator at rest,
 this motherless, brother-less thug
 perceives no pity-pangs... the gun

now quiet, buckshot empty, cold. 
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.

A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff 
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize. 
Indeed, like litterfall they fell, 
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun

a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!

that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!

Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun 

felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.

war part 2

I stand, 
No man's land, 
I will not sulit. 
I have not won.
I have. 
But not my men,
For those, i stand, 
Standing on no man’s land,
I walk away, and grab my men,
I will not tell you im happy,
Because i'm not, thousands of men died,
Not all survived.
The ones that did. 
Where under my watch.
I'm there to tell you. 
I am the boss, 
For those i stand,
I will make them proud,
But my men.
Stand on the ground.
Cover the dead ones up.
Now may they rest.
Take their belongings.
And uses them for the best,
Any food, 
Drink or ammo. 
I will take a bow.. 
I stand for my men. 
Although nobody’s happy.
We have finally finished,
Now we all may rest. 
I add up,
The time we have spent.
After four years. 
Time as come to and end, 
We won with 600 men. 
Standing on no man’s land

Our salvation in the hands of doom

Arctic front just a little seems to much
A tolerance to something with no passion or no desire
To be that frozen bird on the wire
Burning purpose Burning reason 
reason to plant the greatest ideas 
A non-touch society bleeding out slowly
As they shape our mold 
To be a force or be a commune
Starving the less prepared 
Now their army they call us the  metronome 
Building their power forgetting humanity's moral disaster
Ambiguous though they left us no escape held hostage
Corporations traps us always fighting for food.
Panic it's out of their control
We the people
Hold all the cards
Watching the economy teeple
Expecting only handfuls to be still driving cars
I have been stuck in a black hole 
searching for ammo for my soul
Searching for camo 
Before gravity takes it's toll
Now it's 2066
They think home will be hit by some close encounter 
Some near Earth object is eyeing annihilation 
Apophis at 3.4km on 2029 sounds pretty close
Apophis Just go away we don't want you back

Christmas Blooming Christmas

The end of November
Christmas looms ever nearer;
Gifts required for Buster Boy
Kitty Violette and Keira
As well as those for 
Their dads and mums
All to be bought before 
The dreaded day comes.
And the ads on the tele
Get ever more extreme
Filling kids minds with
Such expensive dreams.

So, I'm stockpiling the ammo
For my RPG launcher
This time I mean it,
Resolve couldn't be stauncher.
In my para sleeping bag
I'll be  watching the roofs
Alert for the first sound of
Any approaching hooves.
I'll give him a warning
Tell him to pass by
And if he ignores me
Blast him from the sky.

Wonderful visions
Slide through my head
Of him spiralling down
In his burning sled.
The first year will be hard
As the kids wait and wait
Wondering why
Old Santa is late.
But kids are resilient
And pretty soon I feel
It won't take long for
Disappointment to heal

And in time I know
I'll get plenty applause 
For ridding the world of
That odious Mr Claus.
Such pleasant daydreams
As I'm on the hop
Plodding around 
From shop to shop,
Ever aware as Christmas 
Draws steadily nearer 
Gifts wanted for Buster Boy
Kitty Violette and Keira.

Foreign Policy Folly

The United States greases the slippery palm of Iran.
Who frolic in the frying pan with Hamas and Hezbollah. 
Whom vow to destroy Israel and the United States of America.
The United States provides Ammo and Camo to Israel. 
Who are at war with Hamas and Hezbollah.
This is the reason no country can trust us.

United States foreign policy is really about foreign folly.
The defense contractors and their pals on capitol thrill.
Will make billions and billions off the misery of citizens.
For sake of ratings the media puts coexistence on the spitz.
Scores of dark forces are wishing us, to the brink of oblivion.

Nature Notes

Winter bones are rattling.
A late autumn wind is burying the fallen.
Frost stipples the light of dawn.

Storm gulls and hawks
have chased the songbirds away.
My black coat flaps
like a broken crow wing.
Halloween is immanent,
it is coming with white-faced
killer clowns.

I have already eaten the KitKats
put aside for the kids.
Sugar-toothed search parties
are seeking more chocolate ammo.

The Fall is stripping
like a day-time hooker.
Meanwhile,
pall-bearing squirrels
slowly retreat to their well-stocked drays
in somber array.

The Brotherhood of Man

The brotherhood of man 

 When he came into the hall, his brother came down
the stairs, he had forgotten to buy milk
Outside, guns blasted his brother fragmented to 
a hail of noise and blood on splattered asphalt.
The soldiers, in a killing mood, shot into the hall 
he ran up to the third-floor flat where his sons sat
told them to flee to the roof of opposite buildings
They refused and had slingshots to defend themselves
he didn’t try to persuade the boys, undid a window
and jumped on the next roof as bullets of ill will
hissed past like angry wasps on an August afternoon.
The building he escaped to had once been a clinic
for those who hated their faces and wanted a change
This war had descended into brutal self-delusion  
where the news shouted slogans of hatred, beating   
People to mass hysteria, blindly killing anyone that
resembled the foe, not seeing the enemy was them
committing fratricide.
When the blood lust of ammo suppliers was sated 
a nervous calm until a flash of light lit up the sky
there was no one left to tell why the war had started.

Hard Times

Snows caps on the far hills
it's gonna be a hard one.
I drive to town for some lumber,
check out a new generator
old ones on the fritz.

Folks got some winter gear on already.
At the hardware store
slow minded Jack Hawkins gives me a hard time.
I hand him a list of ammo I'll be needing,
some fishing tackle, tar paper and paint -
put it all on store credit.

On the sidewalk
sheriff Harper gave me a sideways look 
as he drives on by.

Back at the double-wide
there's chores aplenty waiting.
I wish the old lady was still here,
but she died last winter
after a long year of gut ache.
I miss her niggling ways
and the bed needs her warmth.
At the funeral her sister
glared nails at me all through the service;
she ain’t the forgiving kind.

Bolt down a greasy supper
then catch a face in the cracked wall mirror
an old mug with steel gray eyes.

I wish I could find a question 
to ask that feller but I already know 
that I'm just hanging on here
not willing yet to give 
                 one god-damn inch.

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