War ain't easy, but it pays - feat. PancakeBrah

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, October 4, 2013 Under: Rhymed Verses



Charlie.
He can feel it in his bones. His marrow, it speaks.
He falls asleep. Then he piques. It hollows his speech.
"Are you okay?" in Vietnamese. The process repeats.
"Yes." Just let me be, sovereign.
Lost in a dream. Viewed as a Martian as it breathes.
You can find me in a Hanoi garden as a weed.

He placed tobacco cold, in the left of his lip,
to the point his cleft was eclipsed.
He had never seen Saigon. But he knew her.
And bygones. The military taught him new slurs
and sights drawn. And the smell of blood in his nose.
And how to sleep standing up, juxtaposed.
And how to react to shadows, such as those.
And he experienced the downtime. The boredom
approaching. Waiting for Americans. The poaching.
The lack of emoting. Watching his friends smoking.
While he lost all attachment, standing still at a post.
Manned. Tired, as the till of a joke.
The process. The process of war, as it knocks at your door.
Useless, mocked. Defrocked. Marked as a sore.
He can sleep standing up.

I can sleep standing up. I can reach out an open palm
towards a teddy bear ghost when it's gone,
and be okay. I can see the different directions
my life looked before and deflect the mirage.
I can kill the Yanks. And look my face in the mirror,
so long as I live a bit longer. To abate the fear or
realize Darwinism a bit clearer.
But let me stand here and depict to myself
my misgivings and pictures of death,
my family, the beautifully tapestries I did
memorized in the back of my eyelids.





Curious Giorgio,

Few tenants promptly mention the veteran's army
One pubescent at a professional armoury, lessened part of me
The redistribution of wealth exonerably tested Ptolemy
blessed with honesty, this wesson allowed me to do the talking
Illusions docking on a shipyard called Fertility -
but to be frank, I found the population boom exhausting
Unions balking, Freudian bloc'ers doomed as prostrates
The tax exempt foundation of a soul with a lucid mindstate
pools then dilates in a box of overpriced contact lenses unfit for war usage
over there, there's a symbol adorned door with the roof lit
Will you follow the glowing sewer centurion or the Prison Forge blueprint?
Decide now, while Planned Parenthood's strategy room has a fetus chandelier
and the dawn of the beatnik revolution seems to breed the chemo-sample years
LSD supplants the fear... as your favorite movie ballad comes to a close
It's the trickle-down effect as gunpowder runs from your nose
even the runner-ups know, we're all in a hunt for the Huxstable throne
A sun-christened summer home in the under-earth Republican zone
where bystanders get shot, or slashed with loincloth talons
it gets messy - unless you're Jude Law in a crusading boyscout outfit
selling cloud atlases on boxcars, marooned, out with the wagon narcs
puffin' the dragon's gong, unable to imagine NOT being a vagabond
They say the poor fight the wars meant for our enriched consciousness
The Army recruited me to play in a long, drawn out indie film entitled "Incompetence"
I retaliated, 'This isn't a business enterprise, you cretins! No Reebok sideshow.'
Uncle Smarm craned his neck, lowering himself from the beanstalk's high throes
and ordered me stuffed in the Brig -
I entered D-Block with eyes closed
He told me I had nothing to lose, and valuable lessons to gain
but didn't mention the strain of Ho Chi Minh's pinched nerve, or the incredible pain
An organic chemist on a battlefield... would you have dreamt it as sane?
Dr. Mendel took the feeling away - Mendeleev helped replenish these veins
technetium's strange scent was retained, played the most dangerous games
What the nuclear radiation displayed gave me Wilt Chamberlain's fade
Sidewalks scrambled utero stages in the blaze of the day

I carried a lunchbox made in Guam, inside were enough paintbrushes to fill a safe with
The grotesque pastels of World War are the preferred tools of illustration
We eat up debt...eat up debt...Mathilda cake mix
The Situation, 60 Minutes playlists, administrations, winters wasted
Ears poised to the fire in our hearts, hearing the cinders waking
So next time you tread lackadaisically into a hostile marsh with weapons loaded
Trade your copper coins for melatonin -
You've become a coptic buoy for Celtic bonesmen

In : Rhymed Verses 



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