Dingy motel-room-planet
Smartphone cameramen, women,
Children
united in a circle ****:
Lead actress in the center, drowning
in fossil-fuel *******.

Mother (Nature) I'd Like to ****.

I see a kid preaching to the nations
He seems so young, innocent about eight years old.
All the people love him but to me he's only a YouTube sensation.
People cry and raise their hands as he prays to the Almighty God.
Its just a show thought out by his dad.

He closes his eyes, speaks a different language
.             and peoples life change
Pours out a nice sermon, dismisses the crowd heads to the back to count his change.

At nights its a different story
He jacks off to relax his mind.
During the day cameramen record him shaking religious grandmas hands without a shame.
(what a well thought out plan)

He asks for forgiveness
But hides his sins, kills birds, and doesn't feel different.

What a nice suit, shiny shoes
A kid dressed as a groom.

Each side at pains to prove their own case
they can always justify their way
never considering their citizens plight
Ordinary people rarely having their say.

Then the bullets start to fly
followed by mortars and tanks
apartments get blown up causing homelessness
and then there's a run on the banks.

Foreign media all fly in
obviously to get a good scoop
around the demolished buildings
with their cameramen they all troop.

Folks entire livelihoods go up in flame
for them it has now all gone
they rely on the aid available now
it's just the choosing which one.

The cards have been dealt
a crisis may have passed
but the so needed PEACE
is unlikely...to last.

Joe Wilson - War zones...2014

The scene at the graveyard in Louth was a circus;
The press was out in force with their cameramen there.
The grave, freshly dug, covered with a green carpet.
The smell of wet, fresh turned, earth filled the air.
As for the deceased: there were varied opinions.
Some called him a sinner; some thought him a Saint.
He was politically savvy but yet had done ******.
An angel corrupted by a simian taint.
None could dispute he had made his life matter.
The head of his party; His words carried clout.
Nevertheless, he died here in hospice.
His brothers in arms have carried him out
The power and glory he laid down and exchanged
for a plot and a stone in this graveyard in Louth.

a forest – somewhere unfamiliar, sectioned
a cabin – noiseless mannequins stand at attention

the air reeks of dampening feces, but only in certain spaces.
drains masked in chipping red paint dangle like
loose ligaments on skinned pigs above rusted strobe lights.
their faces flattened and torn, arms swaying – minds motionless.
the walls barbed from previous failed experiments create sanity.
one hacksaw. three nails. two strands of hair.
three hundred sixty-five horizons.

the stars outside are starting to shine
and the director is feeling lightheaded.

both boys have the hiccups and
a slight infection of the hickies.

the cameramen hide in the restroom
hitting **** rips and bean dip.

all avoid the white couch
where the restraints wait.