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Tommy Gun Angels

Posted to Poetry

*So this was originally written as just somewhat of a long stream of consciousness peice of... well I don't know. But I decided to cut it up a turn it into a poem. Tell me what you think..*

It was a wave, a pulsar, spinning into and out of sleep. Voices for the
TV radiated and slumped,
inaudible, a mumbled jest of linguistic
capabilities messed and rung by his own head,
flashing and pulsating wildly like a wire set on
fire, blanking and light the room so all its cracks could be heard.
Eyelashes scrape
against the chalk dust couch tickling, an immense
epileptic vibe washes through the room with a half gazed aura.
Buzzed colors beat faster, rhythm.

His voice was dark and heavy, the way you’d think a
gun pointed
at you would
long dramatic vowels and shortsighted consonants.
I studied the fabric
lining, muddled rubric things, all different designs, crosstitch
patterns, blue against white, running clockwise to the seam then
I started to fade out again, the shadows were
elongated, feeling their way around the walls and finding their homes among the skitters and scratches.
“And needs…
the evil ones must not have the chance…
let us show who is the strongest, the victor, the ebony hand beneath it all.”

Men hooped and hollered, echoing from
the past,
meat raw untidy, unchewed uncooked just
dead muscles
hanging from their faces in a guffaw.

“With us or against us…
our pride will stand tall…
monolithic unbounded old glory waving
above in eagle silence
eating up the air space.
And you, you men of Texas, shall be the torchbearers of a new age…
paid in expensive jewels and glistened by…”

“Yay for us…
our leader
standing omnipotent,
let them feel…
by us no man shall have to fear except for
our ebon hand.
Huzzah, HORRAH.
shall be ours.”

They never showed the sky,
all they had were young
faces staring for a second then
ecstatic with rage
and vigilance advance forth,
white teeth becoming pearls in the mouth,
tortured small hats spitting and ending up as
small stacks, buttoned shirts,
tongues alack frothing out words,
chants what have you, axe hands,
still seemed favored.

“And when you,
you my small children leave, you shall
know nothing,
you are all fit,
you shall see those
those damnable faces, rigorous, bounded, gagged in
your masks,
bearing that same name the
almighty forsook…
their firepit eyes and the overwhelming stench, and
all you, you my small
soldiers shall do…
look forward for this
do not look back, you destiny is in
the stars of other countries,
the faces of other worlds,
you will dash…
your frigates are tight, the
will have no sleep,
you will slip around them like an
orange gas,
strangle their hearts until they burst

He raised his hand,
stiff, strongarmed against the
wind, everyone cheers with their mouths fully opened
eyes bulging
from their sockets, some even fall on the wet worked ground.
Everyone’s hands were somewhat, somehow grasped, tightly noosed
around their own
wrists making their knuckles
burst and grind.
I couldn’t think openly when I
watched them
for a minute, those people had an
intangible word
to them, something
disgusting, a
wrapped babies blanket around their neck,
all the folds and creases having
shadows lining the outer parts,
like a melody plating to some
bastard kid, hollowing in his
face and hair stayed straight on
end with natural grease.
Those men
were the
I have ever seen.

And all I could
remain to do was to
lie with my head in the
couch’s hand and eat
up the scene,
its brutality and
never suggest something
I’m sure Fort Hood
has gray buildings, box like, taken
care of, shinny, brilliant and
the paved roads had
tank tred tracks
etched into them, moan but no
cracks of any kind.
And the man,
helm as deep as an
sloped faced with long
wiry eyelashes hitting his cheek,
boardhead curves on
his face, fixated slit eyes, pupils
running for days if they had to,
nose long, symmetrical,
the way the
must have felt.