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Jon Thenes Nov 2019
a convulsive shaking of the head

a tremble ;
it's no trouble
and i've slipped this disarray

shrugged off the character ;
an avatar i've maintained
for a dedicated period

a return to The Cunning

quake the sleeper agent
and unburden the actor

a return to Cunning

the weight is clipped
and the pouch rises to the surface
geesing the code

the dog program :
click the assignment
into a bleedable port

quake the sleeper
and unburden the act

charge up joy for the task ahead
start cleaning the toys of the trade  

re load the literature
retrain your physical form ;
blessed with muscular memory
and a breathing plan

the domestic ailments of the house
are striped and packed into the guest bedroom
the body hair is shaved to minimum
the workplace is given a sick call
then all the tech is despoiled
and the signal singed out

no more Mr. civilian

the soldier
with unmarred purpose
is gratefully reattached to physical function
and mental manner

the soldier makes channels of the streets
tags favoured places
****** in relished corners
puts out an advertisement
a secretion
seeking to rejoin his staff
of instigation
Alissa Rogers Feb 2017
At some point I knew,
or thought I knew,
that I was the only one
who could really look out for me.
How am I so terrible,
unable to trust?
Even the ones that love you
will let you down.
That thought burned over me,
molten metal, hardening fast
into some twisted selfish armor.
Protecting me from pain
but also love.
I have trouble taking it off.
This man, oh, he fights all alone.
He’s fighting so far from home.
Every day he bears his gun, he risks his life,
Fighting in hellish worlds plagued with strife.

He’s not in this for your revolution.
He’s just here of his own volition.
He doesn’t care if things get worse.
He just wants your gold in his purse.

Each and every time he fires,
Death comes, hangs ‘round the shires.
He’s borne witness to immense misery,
But after so much, rarely is he teary.

His brothers and comrades fell all around,
But he has time for neither cry nor frown.
In the town, he’s burnt, he’s looted, he’s *****;
And, into the night, his shadow’s shifted shape.

The dogs of war, they’ve never stopped;
Even when they’re sliced or chopped.
They just go to hell, where they regroup,
Then come back as yet more troop.

Time and guilt erode this man’s visage;
He’s still haunted by infernal image.
He still remembers his prime, young days;
Oh, how he wasted his youthful phase.
It's about an African mercenary who expends all of his youth fighting meaningless bush wars in the Congo.

— The End —