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Kymie 1d
Forged in a fire of brotherhood and violence;
Branded and tempered,
you are  called to service.

You step to the front;
relinquishing your home
and dawning the armor of duty and honor.

You feel your heart beat and you know that the tempo does not belong to you.
Your very breath contracted to the country to which you offer your allegiance and life.
Who casts you forth to a world that neither knows or cares who you are.

Who will remember you when this is done?
Who will know what happened here?
You are a piece of a whole;
Parts welded together by the hell that burned you up together and molded soldiers out of the ashes.

And as you kneel before the field of battle;
You take courage in the boots beside you.
You pray because you know that the ultimate sacrifice is not always made by the soldiers who die.

19 OCT 2020

Kymie 6d
I’ll forever remember your hands
as they slide along the smooth metal.
Like an extension of a part of you
that you have touched a million times.
A directed movement without intention;
But filled with intensity.

Your stance conveys a confidence
that is absent in the life you inhabit.
You pretend to be human
until you step into this sanctuary.

This church where you worship is one of
bullets and defiance.
I close my eyes and I can smell the
gunpowder and sin that is uniquely you.
The commandments of this God
are etched on your mind.
Procedure drips from your skin like sweat.
You bleed accuracy and precision.

As you breath in the sites
I can see that you have settled.
Your universe has narrowed to
the target in front of you.
Five feet or a thousand
There is no difference.
The round is a slave to your movements
Your very will dictates his beginning and end.

When your finger squeezes the trigger
I know I have lost you.
The recoil is a natural motion;
Compensated for at birth and dismissed;
like breath expelling from your lungs.

I find that I am jealous of the trust you
have put in the round that has just left you.
You know where it is going;
And you show no surprise when it
follows your instructions exactly.

How could I ever understand you
the way this object does?
Inanimate to me;
But essential to you.
She is the wife;
And I the mistress.
For I may yet learn your mind;
But I can never inhabit your soul.

Luiz Sep 6
if it didn't **** you
then you are absolutely wrong
that was NOT love

now, go back and don't return
until you are dead!
Lulu Aug 17
Submission is your mission.
Submit both your heart and soul.
Submission is your mission.
Submit your mind, all you know.
Submission is your mission.
And you, do not dare you lie.
Submission is your mission.
Follow orders with no sigh.
Submission is your mission.
You will give your whole being.
Submission is your mission.
Get rid of any feeling.
Submission is your mission.
You are our gun, ours.
Submission is your mission.
We hope, for more than hours.
it wasn’t the earth that brought them here. Nor grass nor tree
instead a solemn scavenger
disinterested of it’s grateful treasures

sprinkling not like rain but like ashes
a goodbye unsaid and unheard
a kiss blown from armies away
hoping it may reach his camp

no god brought it here
as we fight our wars and **** our brothers
it did not fall from heaven
pushing through a crowd of loss

may there be no reason for its being
but persist it must
in hope for its spawns survival
growing evermore

through the cracks, they pray that shrapnel escapes
not all are so lucky as they
blood spilling for their passage on

they are no villains
just weaken souls in need of homes
so far from where their lovers lay,
in bed with other men

deployed as her seed will be too
in the wind together
A dark sun in the horizon
Echoes of wailers travel through deafened ears
Mother Earth could not hold backs its emotion
The blood of the slain heavy as hailstones

On the cheeks of warriors stood watery signs,
Calloused hands could not hold them back
The agony ripped out their severed hearts
Regret found a new companion

Where would the rain come from?
Where would succour meet solace?
Memories flooding away in the river of tears
An undeserving end for strong men of battle

Tales to be told by future generations
Songs forever to be sung by even the unborn
A sad story
A doomsday
Marco Jul 10
A song of shell and thunder whistles past my ear
the crack of distant laughter, empty and hollow,
your voice amid the terror stands out to me so clear
while heavy shrapnel nestles between my ribs.

"Mother of God!" one cries out in horror -
and clammy hands reaching for the collar of my shirt,
tugging, ripping, sending buttons flying steep as bullets,
for  frightened boys to burrow into my chest and pull out the lead.

Your eyes are focused in the blur, a raging sea of darkest green
bewildered at the sight of a deep red river
pouring towards the valley of my hip, the small dip between
bone and muscle, obscenely pooling like a strange lake;

Inviting you for a swim, had the barrel of a German gun then
missed its mark and pointed left; alas, I sit
and bleed to death underneath your fear-stained gaze; I apologize
and in the haze I lift my arm to gently graze the dried mud on your cheek.

The trench has lost another light, or what was left of its sorry embers;
I pray you will sleep sound tonight, ears shut tight from
screaming, laughing, crying, dying - just think,
if it bears not too much pain, of my love, and speak my name when

My mother asks about her son - with steady voice you tell her
that with a smile on my lips and a warmth in my breast
I thought of her, and passed on.
This is inspired by poetry emerging from WWI / the battle of Dunkirk.
Soldier Boys 1
I went out to Manny to meet a black gal but she never showed. Go to the pub and get ******, I’m good at it! Then back to town my crap Oldham to another pub to have ale and curry. What’s this? Eight lads surround me at the bar get ready! But no fight, fun!

They try to wind me up do I like men? Yea I like you I tell the big one, all muscle.

I show my WOW tat on my **** and what fun! Party time, we drink as one and I have the big lad’s wine down half a bottle in one, then more beer. And I know I’m right, they’re army lads, how do I know? I just do lol.

In the Abbey its mad, big lad spies an old hippy with a recorder.
He borrows it and up big lad’s **** it goes, I almost cried with laughter!
We gave it all waggling devil fingers and partied on.

The army lads left and I set off home but I stopped and went to their pub the Hathershaw, we drank till late.
I had eight brothers that night.

I hope they’re all ok when they get called up to go to Afghan next year.
Two of their mates are already gone.
I’m just a writer I say.
Juniper’s Daughter: War Is Obsolete – Futility and Hope
Nick Armbrister
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