Go.Stop.Explode [it's raining saints and aliens]

So it seems like a tranquil sort of
training exercise that keeps
reverberating past thoughts in a cycle of
evolutionary blandness.

Step up.
Step down, soldier.

Keep telling yourself that they are your friends,
except on bad days.
Enemies from the start, with competitiveness
pushing you in a mindless direction to only
succeed in overtaking your beautifully challenged
beat down in pulsing forms of
ulcers contracting backwards into your stomach.

Idly I wait for another sliver of confusion to
look my way, while two feet away trains
drown out all thought
in the same spot where I just stood.



Now and again I lie, guaranteed by the tears I have promised not to shed.
Go on and say it, it’s
eating through your entrails.

Tilting to the side where the nerves were once
irking to feel again amidst
talk of being fake.

Oscar winning scenes of babies marching home
from the sandbox, reek havoc and
freeze my eyelids shut again.
My love, mixed in with AK-47s and
yours, couple with music notes.

Before, I wasn’t sure I could take it
and now I know I could never even start
calling out names to save me.


Kill.Eat.Die.Repeat.Kill.Eat.Die.Repeat.



Pop out your misused references and
look over your shoulder.
Everywhere you see concrete fortresses
armoured with camouflage.
Sauter your helmet onto your scalp
even in the shower, soldier.