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)

A pack of cigarettes, some gum,
some condoms, and $50 were stuffed
into his cargo pocket, in his left hand
a 9 millimeter, 10 rounds in the clip
he spotted a dead Vietcong.....

                                                              Yellow and scrawny....
                                                             a bullet through his right eye
                                                             his brains seeping out of his skull....

                     A little girl, walking down the dirt field road
                     a rice bowl in her right hand,
                    a bayonet in the left, it was covered in blood

Up the road, he spotted a fire,
the sounds of AK-47's whipping through the wind
a pile of bodies stuffed on top of each other

                             Ears and fingers wrapped around bare skinned necks
                                                                       the smell of rotten flesh....

                        To the south, a *******
                        high heel boots, lace *******
                        and a mini skirt, unkempt hair, pitch-black
                        red lipstick and hazel colored eyes
                        $50 for a hand-job, $75 for a *******
                        $100 for one hours and $200 for two
                       condoms still stuffed in the cargo pocket

                    A back alley, a sloppy *******
                    the ****** broke.....

                                                              The gum is still wrapped in foil,
                                              unwrapped, slowly chewed, sweet then bitter
                                           the roar of helicopters and the blast of grenades
                                                         American flags ripped and set on fire
                                                  A single bullet, a silent gasp.....

We do not walk away from the echo's of combat
in fact, we embrace it....
the shadows of death haunt us
but we like to believe that we haunt the shadows

Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
                                                        the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
                                                      our intestines.....

                                         The blankets
                                        cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses

we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered

                    the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
                    in the form of gangrene,

the rats  make themselves at home,

feasting upon the rotten
                                 flesh of fallen comrades.....

the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone

                                         then comes the symphony of artillery....

    the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
                                                    the mighty foot soldiers, and
                    the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas

          the trenches become our unwanted love
         and our unholiest of homes......

"The tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us


            these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
                                          

                                               the illusion of life and the irony of war.....

Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface

the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses

we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered

the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone

then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas

the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders

but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....

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....

******* and bra's mindlessly slung over chairs
while the serenade of squeaky bed frames
is aided by the collaboration of lustful moans

Chocolate sauce drizzled over naked flesh
the toppings of whip cream and strawberries
are also included.....

The exchanging of saliva....
passionate kisses conclude the motion
of passionate ******....

A sea of slime and sludge
crawls into our boots
and slithers into our socks
gangrene swarms at our feet

Hands frigid and frostbitten
bodies burred beneath the earth
worms and maggots feast upon rotten flesh

The wounded weep,
bloodshot eyes stare at the darkness of the sky
the cannons crash and the bullets rain
as lighting and thunder rip through the sky

The rats scurry out of their burrows
and feast upon our cheese and bread
our food runs scarce

Blood dries on the bayonets
the soil is our graveyard....

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....

It's black and muggy....

a little bit of black ice
to burn my tongue

A hint of lemon
for that sour, exotic flavor

I sip and swallow
cough and puke..

A glass in one hand, a box of matches in the other
a flame, a warm feeling in my throat

and an unquenchable thirst....

The slickness of a blade
pressing against a throat....
the cold steel meeting tender flesh
blood drips and a body tumbles

the taste.... the sight... the sound....
all quite euphoric.....

Ripped clothes, smashed items,
echo screams, and the raging fires that glow throughout the night

The beauty.... the savagery.... the destruction
all quite euphoric....

I

There was a whiskey bottle
sitting on the back corner
of the living room
it laid shattered and broken...

empty ****** wrappers
and ***** stains sat on the couches
while the floor reeked of ******
and the walls were plastered with *****

A shattered picture frame
lying in the middle of the floor
with a single drip of blood....

I made my way towards the kitchen....


II

Flies sat on moldy bread
while sour milk sat with mushy cereal
the meat laid in the sink...
the only thing you could see was blood

The refrigerator was empty....
a silver spoon sat on the stove
rat poison was in the pantry
next to a broken syringe

Rats scurried in the garbage
the bowls were filled with dead roaches
the doors was torn off its hinges

I made my way towards the bathroom....


III

The sink ran brown water
rusted razor blades with dry blood
the mirror was shattered
broken toothbrushes laid in the background

Feces smeared on the flood
the toilet was broken in two
the bathtub with its lonely drip
a broken water main

The walls weakened by punches
smashed by hammers
and mixed with mildew

I made my way towards the bedroom....


IV

Two corpses lying side by side
one with her throat slit
the other with a bullet through his head
the hands touching gingerly

White powder on the dresser
clothes scattered and set on fire
a bible by the bedside
and a rope hung from the rafters

The mirrors were smashed
black smog filled the air
a chair in the middle of the room

We all were dead.....

When we were younger
the world was full of vibrant colors
who knew however, that as we grew older
the world would turn black and white

We were kids, wanting to become adults
but when we became adults
we wanted to be kids again....