poisoned bullets

the leading is stacked neatly
resolved by years of toil and sweat
perfection reached inked and a test
nobody is perfect but the page must
tell the truth we trust what we read

and we listen to the words of a sooth
sayer of tales that spin us out of
our safety zone our diplomacy with
each other our rabbid songs and the
bashings in the street being watched

by glass eyes and feet that lie running
deep into the wet dark night lamposts
their long stretched out shadow imposing
sentence upon our future keep us locked
up behind your fury iron bars dissolve

if we find the right chemicals our brains
will explode more than average we are told
and we believe the unseen makers of the
eventual drain as long as our hair dont fall

out or the wasted years spent on roofs
are kept secret they wont know
the times we tried and we were the only
ones who could hear ourselves sing

they were not to know we were going
to bring them to joy and tears
just by being who we is
just by hitting a drum
just by doing it again

we see it on the screens
news reel so badly filmed
we hav to write in suggest a director
to make it more convincin
to get a better vector
point them cameras this way
not that way and get into the
action do not be concerned it is just gunfire
them bullets are not poisoned
just protect that damn camera
its expensiv

the army of faded typewriters
the wheels of printing majesty
all folded up neatly into a
3 line bullet point
brief message on your
personal head console
before you think
erase erase erase
and are free of it

the captain shouted into his megaphone
but the sea ripped his words astray
the lives of real men at stake
and he could not quite clear his throat
the waves buttered him about
softening his grip on the wheel
and the ships collided at sea
and nobody heard from them again

when it arrived it was not what we expected
a parcel from space full of lists,
some old family photos
and a device
but nobody could place that family
the device remained untested
and found its way into a museum display

and space remained the unknown expanse
the museum swallowed by a nuclear test
back in the fifties and the rest remains
history witnessed only by the alien with
three heads and a job at the Whitney

30 seconds to go,
before the next load of old souls

his hands and their dry scratchy noise as they rubbed in glee
those seconds were long and the hunger of the old demon
was an unbearable repeating dead song.
The pain was uncontrollable.

In what seemed an age,
hunger took its place
in the pantheon of hate
for the aging evil survived
through ice and storms

it had waited for the news of the belated
and now after what seemed a millenia or two
the wars over that man
that said the fight itself
would make them dead
if they ignored him and put up his head
as a banner for victory
it only meant their childrens blood would run
and they would lie in wait for the
day they could not longer be held abay

and untold numbers of them
would be released to feed the beast

down below

25 seconds to go.
He felt terribly old.

it was going to be a
long dead night
as time itself
lost its sense of
being connected
the wires were frayed
and the bills were rejected
quantum collapse
was the final headline

nothing much happened after that
it was the end of time