Burning books and crumbling buildings

The dead sit in piles.....

flesh, rotting from the bone
blood leaks from open skulls
as bullets enter the brain

The dead sit in piles....

Smoke and smog clog the lungs
they blind the eyes, and burn the nose

Locomotives, filled to the brim
with broken bones and blink eyes

The frigid shower-heads spit out smoke
naked bodies collapse on the cold, concrete tiles
The skies rain bone and ash

The dead sit in piles....

With the smell of fruit
she taste like strawberries
her soul, sweet as an orange
leaving a bitter aftertaste of memories on your tongue....

The wind utters it's weary lullaby
a tender serenade of a newly slaughtered body

Blood.....
dripping into the soil, savoring the nutrients
sweet....

but bitter....

August 24, 2016,   9:31 P.M


There's something beautiful about
broken households, alcoholics
hangovers and chaos in general
there's a sense of beauty....

It's beautiful because it's like car wreck
it's horrible yet you can't turn your eyes away
within that fiery metal and twisted pile of flesh and bone
lays a story, it's like poetry, it's poetry because it's real
brutally real, it makes you feel, it makes you think
you think about how it happened, where did it happened?
when and why?

It's beautiful because it hurts
it hurts and sometimes we need to feel pain
in order to grow, it's perfectly imperfect
like life, that why broken households
car wrecks and heartbreaks
will always have a better plot line
than any Cinderella story ever could....
it's real and people like real....

                                          (Antonio Ball)

Bullets bouncing off of wet concrete
still hot to the touch....

Outside my window, a sea of blood
millions upon millions of pictures plastered over television screens

Outside my window, bodies laid bare....
white eyes and frozen skin....

Stain glass window, one hundred million faces
outside my stain glass window....

Our wives have become our grenades

                                                     and our sons have become our bayonets


the battlefield has become our home