Oh how glorious war is!
How efficient
And adequate!
The way it entertains the gods
When we shoot fireworks and missiles into the sky
It accustoms young women to waiting
Awards men for slaughtering men
Inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches
Adds pages to history books
Gives politicians something to bet on
Brought tears to Einstein’s eyes
Leaves men scarred for life
Gives poets new themes
Like Bukowski and Cummings
It produces less mouths to feed
Teaches historians that history is always repeating itself
Gives governments something to brag about
Pulverises countries until nothing is left
Accomplishes equality between killer and killed
Keeps the industry of artificial limbs in business
Gives grave diggers a pat on the back
See how glorious war can be?

every morning at dawn arise old ghosts
mouths a laceration of starched and well ironed sorrows
tall with hard calloused thoughts
they dispense in scattered winds
red fiery dust as they move
it pulverises a languid and tremulous sun
creating evil urges
white eyed they ****** and gulp
like burst and juicy fruit
their fill of emptied begging children
causing competing and contrasting
rumours of confrontation to avenge and humiliate
to cause a devastation of glimpses through
the red fiery dust paths
don’t think if there is no hurry they will slip away
no, the old ghosts multiply forcing a look upon
that frightened daylight star with an evil eye of virtue
that assumes to sanctify the foul rookeries
where perch devils and evil jinns
conjuring up a vaudeville of defrocked priests
who weep  over a holed and cast of shoe
with withered  fingers rattling rosaries
as if to ward of some dreaded contagion
and they lie there among the rain without the wet
and know that it is they who are the contagion
they so fearfully dread

i don't know if this is any secret at all,
    but i find this to be quiet encouraging to state,
in that what i will state is:
   (a) when i write i'm hunched in my chair like a crow,
but (b) - i write, and then sit up-right on the windowsill,
one foot folded so i'm sitting on it, and one foot
touching the floor;
                 but it's not about that...
                              it's the screen time you receive
that pulverises your eyes...
        some news from london: the piccadilly circus
advert lights have been turned off, it's a time-period
for refurbishment.
                     well... computer screens are like the glare
of those advert lights...
                   stand under them long enough,
and you're like a moth attracted to a lightbulb...
            insects have senses equivalent to amphetamines,
they're junkies toward certain stimuli...
     the dumb moth will not bash into a lightbulb once,
it will repeatedly bash into it... i appreciate not learning
the lesson after the first encounter,
      so that a rational a priori         followed by an a posteriori
dynamic can engage... pavlov's dogs didn't learn
it the first time... but that's beside the point...
      you want to keep your eye-sight for longer,
and feel less insomnia prone?        computer screens
can be dimmed, so that the glare can disappear,
    but there's a piece of apparatus that's more forthcoming when
it boils down to the glare effect...
                     an electric lamp in a corner of the room...
and you'd be surprised as to how your eyes "bleed" (watery
ache... tears are cleansing and due to their salty nature,
can ease the eyes' stare - but these wartery eyes,
from watching a computer screen for too long? what's that?
myopia?) - added to the fact that you're not sitting
by a computer at a distance of 2 metres...
               the single most important apparatus when using
a computer, and staring into the eye of beelzebub (pixels,
flies have pixelated eyes) - and if you're into
      the myth, akin to prometheus - well he was punished
for what he did, and humanity prospered...
      the beelzebub effect? and that is a metaphorical question:
we received a double edged-sword... beelzebub is doing
a pontius pilate moment, of washing his hands clean...
  and yes, all the great access to information, and all the other
great benefits of the computer...
         but prolonged use? the problem of sitting down for too
long and back aches... and then the deterioation of eye-sight,
from the glare of the eye...
        one solution... just one tiny little suggestion when
sitting in-front of a computer screen... one little accessory...
      SUNGLASSES!            the light coming from the computer
screen is more harmful that solar light of the sun...
       on a myopic scale that is...
           obviously solar light is dangerous in traffic,
in the guise of hyperopia...
                which is to say: this is not some sort of "black magic"
because i made a ref. to beelzebub... i made it quiet plane:
pixels.       it's that it's not that ****** ridiculous wearing sunglasses
in the night... when you're hunched over a computer screen.

She is
The size of a flower petal
Attracts me
As if she is the size of Jupiter
Pulling me straight to her core
Crushing my being

She smiles
Whilst playing with her hair
Blinds me
As if she is Betelgeuse
But still my eyes glued on her
Destroying my retinas

She touches
My heart with her little fingers
Pulverises me
As if I was squashed by Olympus Mons
Yet I still reach out to her
Completely *wrecked

Her name was Razan Ashraf Abdul Qadir al-Najjar,
From 7am till 8pm she helped the injured,
Tending to them on the fields of freedom.

This was her weapon,
Her white medical coat,
Now stained with her life’s blood.

“Her only weapon was her medical vest,”
Her Mother’s voice drowns in pain,
“She may have been small, but she was strong.”

The last time she saw her daughter,
“She stood up and smiled at me,
She flew like a bird in front of me.”

The angel of mercy,
Her goal was to save lives,
And offer relief to the wounded.

Her arms raised high to show she was unarmed,
She approached a victim lying upon the ground,
But the ******’s trigger only knew the language of hatred.

And a bullet blinked hard and fast,
The wrath of the single butterfly bullet was so brutal
It ruptured into three other medics.

A bullet designed to explode upon impact,
It lacerates and pulverises bone and tissue,
The Devil’s Banned Bullet.

It was a Friday,
In the month of Ramadan,
When the desert sand drank her blood.

A weeping Mother kisses a jacket
Stained with her daughter’s blood,
“I wish I could have seen her in her white wedding dress.”

Only the songs of lamentations now,
Grief shrieks through the streets without water,
And the world watches in censored silence.

Trying to control what happens to you,
What others should or shouldn’t do,
Say or not say,
Be or not be,
Forces you and them into a box,
Restricts, confines, disappoints,
Batters expectations,
Suppresses spontaneity,
Pulverises possibilities,
Bludgeons synchronicities,
Annihilates joy from life.

The mind has no bounds
Before addiction
Which suffocates
And drowns
And traps
The mind

Addiction pulverises and
Processes good things so
Numbly
The bounds
Devour the ability
To reach the heart
The heart
Becomes

Alone
Because a slave must first be
Tamed