WAR

Originally written in protest against “Operation Desert Storm”; unfortunately, however, it has been necessary to update it accordingly.)

Like advertisements for condoms, like B-movie bombers, came the War on Poverty, the War on Drugs, the War on Homelessness, the War on Sex and Violence, the War on EVIL and the Axis of Evil, the War on War . . . the next Brave New Movement . . . Mein Kampf on trading cards, pink bubbles bursting onward and outward . . . nationalistic slogans and bible codes on the Holy Hosts of the sacrament, take this my brother, as you storm the Holy Land, eat this in remembrance of Him . . . no getting through the golden gates without it—or forfeit those crowns; no wings, no flight glasses, no halos, no excuses Comrade Herr cowboy . . . no unlatching the Büstenhalter, no fiddling with the Holy Meat, no jacking off in the trenches, my Brother, no sperma on the ground, no human tadpoles wriggling through the mud, mein Bruder, there are no atheists in foxholes! mein Braut: Bemühen Sie sich nicht! Take my word for it, no atheists storm the holy land, no atheists liberate the little brown children, little souls winging toward the clouds, little heads on pikes! We have nothing to fear but God himself . . . champagne toasts . . . crystal glasses tinkling love, to make love—not war, sloshing petroleum over the rim, here look run your finger around the rim, it makes such pretty music, the music of . . . well . . . oil . . . the music of . . . WAR . . . the music of champagne love . . . the music of

Das Kapital sparkles, effervesces upon streets paved with gold . . . with golden icons and golden bowls, all gold, gold everywhere, for everyone, everyone fooled by gold . . . our school colors are black crude and gold . . . our little shoes, plated with gold . . . gold teeth and gold eyelashes, the glitter of gold on the cheeks and . . . aborted gold fetuses are our business—our only business . . . our benefactors piss in the mouths of the hopelessly human dying of thirst –it’s liquid gold, a golden fountain, a shower of . . . run your finger around the rim, sweetheart . . . Auschwitz fairyland, bombed out ghettoes of the Terran nightmare . . .

unwitting stooges, goons, hitmen in the name of God and country, their colorful kerchiefs lynching dissenters from heaven’s wincing flagpoles, in the name of the higher good, the summon bonum . . . switching the channel did not dam up the blood on the block . . . did not cork up whirlpools of decency churning within living rivers of routine lies and propaganda . . . rivers from the punctured palms of Homo Christos . . . mistrust overflowing scenarios of fear and dependency . . . we have nothing to fear but fear itself . . . random violence flash floods the landscape . . . don’t you want to be able to drive that cute car of yours, mein Schwester Zucker, mein Fräulein? . . . black smoke billowing from the derricks . . . it’s about freedom, it’s about decency, it’s about the rights of the people, it’s about the rights of Man . . . it’s about love, and the rights of . . . love . . . do you understand, love . . . multinational corporate love . . . sporadic aggression, the shock and awe of gestapo raids, U . . . S . . . A . . . U . . . S . . . A . . . united by shock and awe, assassinations, coups, reincarnated crusades, reinstated inquisitions . . . love . . . a million Christians are praying all over the face of the earth . . . about love . . . and one man’s tirade of . . . love . . . couldn’t God’s will possibly be in it . . . it’s love . . . God is love . . . God’s blitzkrieg in the wee dark hours . . . is about . . . love . . . God’s shock and awe of love . . . God’s love . . . talking out of both sides of its mouth . . . about . . . love . . . about military readiness . . . about threats to corporate . . . love . . . about the loving liberation of God’s chosen people . . . the corporate . . . benefactors of . . . love . . . no time to fret about little folks whose love babies are aborted in trashcans and wheelbarrows behind the bars in the back alleys of the American corporate nightmare because they have no health insurance, can’t afford to see a doctor or fill a prescription . . . no, this is about global . . . love . . . global security . . . the global village vagrants of . . . love . . . pitch black magic daylight strobelights God’s heavens . . . no place for a young terrorist to be out at night . . . love, it’s about peace and love . . . ontological horror, internal vacancy, great chaotic vortices consuming them from the inside-out . . . peace spinning around . . . love . . . the vortices of peace ‘n love . . . if you hear it enough, it is so . . . peace ‘n love . . . rotting and poisoning them, as the airwaves bled with upbeat nonsense to bury the national memory . . . a memory before . . . 9 . . . 1 . . . 1. . . U . . . S . . . A . . . 9 . . . 1 . . . 1. . . U . . . S . . . A . . . 9 . . . 0 . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 0 . . . lest we ever forget . . . the skeletal cell, membrane without brain . . . blue eyes crying in the rain . . . it’s about love . . . it’s about God’s love . . . it’s the way to peace and love . . . it’s about everybody having enough, it’s about human decency, it’s about the long hard road to . . . love . . . the bloody road of loving, paved by war and the inadequacies of truth in relation to . . . love . . .

viciously apprehended . . . scapegoats, kissed the hands of corporate gangsters . . . threw sand in the eyes of the national dignity . . . peanut gallery protests of atrocities, as decisive and empowered as monkey farts . . . scribbling profound lines of socially conscious poetry lamenting bungs in fenders of Audis and Chevys, and the rights of women’s bungholes . . . poets against the war . . . against hate . . . against the opposite of . . . love . . . canned laughter and tears ricocheting around a pinball universe of 2-dimensional love . . . realization of self- . . . love . . . embellished with buzzers, bells, and UFOs . . . and little canned jazz riffs that refused to go away and proclaim . . . love . . .

“Aye lads, aye, and an aye for an aye. Glory praise to Father Fusion by the PTL, the people that . . . love . . . the PLO, the people . . . loving . . . others . . . praying for you and aye; He has brought us all together now in dread of Him, / in dread of . . . love . . . the failure to . . . love . . . Him / in one human bondage, with one magic wand . . . a wand of pixie . . . love . . . / Let us sup the cup of suicide in common, / there’s enough love for everyone / there’s enough purple koolaid for every chalice, for each set of lips, for each gut puking up . . . love . . . God’s love moistening every set of lips . . . God’s love . . . whetting the tongue in absolute corporate truth / whether we lift hand to poison or gun, /awaiting through . . . love . . . and radioactive third-eyes, / befriended by tumors, and befriending them in . . . love . . . we cheer on the tidy bomb; cheer on the love of human beings loving others . . . and loved, so very loved, so omnipotently loved by God’s chosen people . . . by God’s CEOs of . . . love. . . . ”

erratic leaders with coke-bottle visions of peace and prosperity, riding the range of righteous . . . love . . . mendin’ fence in the 10/40 window of opportunity, para six-guns magnifying glaring paradoxens—is that the word—is that the way you spell it?; little wiener dogs snorting up the Gross National Product to turn the crank of their limos . . . grassroots rebellions of little poor folk hoisting billionaires upon their shoulders . . . the posses, the good old boys, the people’s people, the saved, the chosen ones, the loved of the earth trickling down their love to others less fortunately loved . . . to chart or not to chart, that is the question . . . to analyze, to compile, to spiritize, to revile, to override and overthrow and overestimate overgrown laws and principles—what’s that silly little shrieking? . . . ooooooOOooo, oui know . . . that ripply cheerleader squeal . . . in front of the love cameras . . . the cry of the cute girls, the love call of the gold-plated twat—overzealously guarding the underguarded gates of undergirded CEOs . . . what part of “liberate” don’t you understand! . . . what part of LOVE eludes you!? . . . what part of cute are you not familiar with? . . . we’re throwing a love party here . . . we’re cheering on our big, burly skinhead privates . . . our conquistadors headbanging in agreement with the government of right and might . . . we’re pampering and powdering our little privates . . . with the cry of the cute girls . . . ooooo . . . . ooo—they’re just taking orders—ooooo . . . oooooooo . . . NO—like this . . . ooooooOOooo . . . it takes just the right twist of inflection midway through the squealy noise . . . velvet gloves handling delicate diplomacies . . . suede gloves removed to reveal the iron fist, the honed hook . . . burly leg chaps ride through the brambles of myopic criticism . . . through the thickets of dissenting rhetoric defying the straight shooter of truth, we will roust you out of yer nests, and we will persecute you! . . . begging for your prayers, for your support, as he goes it alone down the dim trail of God’s love for the oppressed of the earth . . . ma, pa, little dottie and her pup toto . . . justice rides long and hard, erect and hard, tall, n thick, hard n gorged with . . . love . . . for that little scamp toto, that little paradoxen . . . six-guns polished to a high chrome finish, blinding the varmints . . . badge polished in the high noon sun, reflective of machiavellian wanted posters . . . stetson drawn down over the eyes, bandana up over the mouth and nose, braving a hailstorm of bullets, rocks, unrehearsed questions, and chad . . . speaking his peace in one syllable words, the language of the people . . . pray for me, don’t just love me, pray for me . . . each night at bed . . . down on your knees . . . next to God . . . pray for me . . . pray for God’s love for me . . . and for this land I love . . . this land is your land . . . this land is my land . . . from the New York . . . uh . . . (I caint read that there Billy Bob . . . it’s fuzzy . . . fuzzy logic) . . . tuh . . . tuh . . . tuh the plains of . . . home . . . home on the range? . . . got it . . . “homeland security” . . . that’s a mess uh syllables all strung together Bobby Joe, I shore don’t want to lose ‘em.

prophylactic explodes with the snout of the eel, jaws of the hyena . . . to chart or not to chart, that is the question . . . stormtroopers hustling them off in the night . . . found in improbable sitcheeashuns of illicit amor covering up murders and suicides of the forsaken . . . enticed to sell out for a share of the harlot’s thighs . . . hot rocking tail winds whispering cum ons, wake through alleys and avenues . . . to serve and protect the best interests of Mankind in equal proportion to an entity’s wealth and influence . . . as represented by your betters and guardians and overlords . . .

violent WAR!s must await all those born in critical time slots who are likely to cause social unrest, political upheaval, religious heresies—we shall finger them for “promiscuity” and “degeneracy” . . .

The handicapped, the insane, the retarded—but we don’t say that anymore . . . we people of love—with unloaded, rusting guns stuck in their hands . . . cannon, tank, and smartmissile fodder . . . the nameless, faceless, voiceless, otherwise useless, of the earth ever poorer, despairing, chaotic . . . WAR! made them feel worthwhile, defined who they were as a nation, deluded a species . . . WAR! sent their children over the borders, out from the cities, into the jungles and oceans and deserts, to cook and be cooked with other children in tanks, and planes, and ships, in boats, jeeps, trains, to slice their playmates throats—it was a crime of passion . . . great unbridled passion . . . posing as love; love to lop off heads, to hack off testicles and nipples and carry them around in their mouths like small stones, to stave off thirst, to make mighty magic against the enemy . . . richer, more powerful tribes brutalizing weaker, poorer ones, fighting only on their turf . . . innocent populations of the meek became the bloody harvest . . . as sweat-soaked knees drug through fields like plows . . . children lying on the ground in broken heaps . . . why, it’s a virtual wrecking yard of old, worn-out car bodies and children! . . . the children starved, without muscle, rib bones poking through skin, legs and arms like windlestraw, blowing away in the wind, the answer my friend is blowing away in the wind, crying, weeping, sobbing . . . if a child dies in the forest and no one is around to hear it, did it make a noise . . .

It’s about . . . love . . . and . . . peace. It’s a death about love and peace. Its death is about love, its death . . . is about peace. If a child dies nameless in the forest, is it a child, or is it an . . . it . . . until . . . loved

thinking about cute and clever ways to describe body counts, to generate statistical evidence that death only partook of the enemy . . . to chart or not to chart, that is the question . . . to bury their war dead, to erect great phallusies to heroism . . . standin’ tall and erect, thick and proud . . . thermonuclear-equipped park rangers patrolling the wilderness of the foreign country, mini-nukes in their bazookas, faces like apocalyptic insects, short vermin-trunks hanging from their noses, and stingers on their tails, stingers of . . . love . . . of . . . God tied like a string around their finger, lest we forget . . . love . . . of . . . WAR! produced new incarceration economies in foreign lands . . . small-scale psychopathic WAR!s over who shall warm his hands over wastebaskets afire in the alleys at night . . . domestic compounds filled with the sprayed and spayed remains of potential wildness . . . while our love, true love, God’s love, stands erect, tall, unwavering, yet throbbing mightily . . . a paradoxen of love . . . if a child dies in a forest of . . . love . . . and . . . peace . . . for all mankind . . . and no one is around to hear it, did it make a noise . . . to chart or not to chart, that is the question . . .

NEVER AGAIN WAR! NEVER AGAIN THE CAMPS! never again & again . . . in the straightjacket of time the silent face of Eternity. . . if a child dies in the straightjacket of Eternity, and no one is around to hear it, did it have a name and did it make a noise . . .

Like silos brimming with millet, Modern Nations had stocked arsenals . . . they couldn’t defends themselves from anyone . . . without stocked arsenals . . . our Stealth bombers are for the elderly, for the little old derelict stumbling along homeless in the alleys at night, no matter how insane, no matter how grimy & repulsive, our arsenals are for all Americans, and for all Americans-to-be in all foreign lands everywhere . . . fighting a war on four fronts if they had to . . . angry obnoxious jazz riffs played everything but . . . love . . . slip a little of that purple koolaid on that mouthpiece . . . it won’t take much love to imbue peace into that horn . . . it’s not about schools, it’s not about health care, it’s not about Medicaid, it’s not about conservation, it’s not about riding on the back of the bus, it’s about . . . riding . . . fence . . . the fence of . . . love . . . modern nations had advanced weapons technologies . . . it’s about terrorism . . . modern nations had peacekeeping agendas . . . it’s about the terrorism of . . . love . . . terrorism of . . . corporate . . . love . . . the black, as in blackness, blackness gold, river of love . . . the oil of love . . . modern nations developed and devoted their national debts to the stocked arsenals of . . . love . . . to clandestine love economies, shrouded in layers and layers of loving wars . . . for the people . . . that love . . . for the people . . . loving others . . . even after 9 . . . 1 . . . 1. . . won the war for love, won the war for freedom . . . it has nothing to do with oil . . . it’s only love . . . God’s will and God’s love . . .

modern nations, like the great nations of old . . . gave and took . . . love . . .

[—so when was the last time you felt so beloved by the great white father?]

and they took shit from no-one. . . .

—to read the continuation of “WAR,” and more of Brave New World Order, go to www.howlingdogpress.com/BNWO