Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Unearthing the living

Again and again his head smashed into the post. One crunching sickening thud after another.

Across the room she was thrown with a force that astounded her more then anger.

It's eyes bulging out. It's thin possum scream scratched by fear.

A boy grew up murdering himself with rage.

In broad daylight in the evening and at midnight war re-lived. From one hand to another raised like fingerprints embossed on flesh. I loathe it.

People who have never grown up with the remains of war will never understand. Will never know what it is to see children as adults still battling with visions. Will never know what it is to be the real transposed with remembered nightmare. Will never have seen parents fighting fear. Forty years later. War is not a tap that can be turned on. And off.

These are the stories no one wants to know. The living that we bury. Oh you take your hope and your ism and you choke on it's sweetness, gorge yourself on it. Go on. While the thin waste away on memory. You and your war. Your war carriers so few, and so prolific. War propaganda may bury us but soil means nothing to the haunted.

Every social order under the sun, burnt. Every account under the 52 points in debt. None of your grand plans mean anything, to children.

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