Brian Patrick

Insidious by its very nature
Yet soothing to those who indulge
It calls upon its broken cohort
Every two hours like a sentinel

It silently creeps along the mire
The Reaper within smiling and leering as he
Calls upon the Banshee McLemore
Searching for the wanton easy prey

Somehow the Poison drifts along the ebb
The shore becomes a winter haven
Solace among the rubble and waste
The storm as the background for a living hell

The innocents have no fight with the
Pinprick that brings their bodies delight
Off into the realm of self edification
The familiar warmth that overtakes

The warmth that turns into stark heat
Fluttering eyes look to the heavens
The beauty that is McLemore, lips waiting
Death in all its beauty awaits

To be stolen from the claws of McLemore
Cheated from the Reaper's blade
The spray that awakens the departed
Another snatched from the clutches of the Poison...
...has risen

© 2014 Brian Patrick

I remember sitting
around the tracks
with my comrades.
We were in rolling fields of clover
back then.
The doves that flew above us
had no clue
about our firepower.
We had .50 cals
and we picked our teeth
with splintered bone fragments.
To think
we even had the time
to smoke and joke
about our ridiculous nicknames
brings a smile
to my weathered-fface.
Moose was toothless,
lost them
to some drunk civilians
in a bar fight.
Wagner, the skinny one,
always cracked me up.
I miss McMinn's toothy-grin
and the way French
always wanted out,
constantly feighning his gayness.
Radosavich loved his rock and roll
and Flint sparkled from his hole
carved into the hillside.
Moore had chicks galore
and McLemore got his
divorce papers by airmail.
He went eerily silent
while Top barked ******* for us to do.
The Man was clueless,
but we protected his ***
anyways.
We had bills to pay.
I really miss those *******.
They were the best friends that ever were.