Spent Ammunition

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“I don’t wanna be a soldier, mama
I don’t wanna die”

— John Lennon.

The fan, an irritable rotation makes.
Hardy’s soldier: he’s slunk and gloomy.
But, a patriot, he has no choice
As he listens to waves of his ocean shore
Toss back to land memories. His new spiked foe

Has died and post-mortem he strives
As, of all quesries, why: “Why did I kill him”?
Sweet Thomas Hardy hardy soldier in
His stream of consciousness swim
Past boulder, bolder. Far off the Indian Ocean floor.

Personality and courage are myths
Man invented. Power-wielders’ concoctions,
They sully noone’s conscience
As conscience is a myth. The man who led you
You will lead off by force and keep a gun on his chest

And, perhaps, treat him if met by a bar
To whatever drinks the mess rules wiser
For the brains. Or, shoot him on the head
If met with an anti-governmental slogan
And re-load the automatic, as he slumps to the drains.

Thinks Hardy, pen in hand, sitting down
One evening: would the thoughts of a soldier
Its own complexity know? Dressed up to suit the tinge
Of manipulations and lies, they — the straw dogs
And armoury — disfranchised; seldom more.


One thought on “Spent Ammunition

    Jani Bee said:
    March 1, 2012 at 12:47 pm

    More like ‘The man he killed’ but I dare say this is cooler:)

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