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Who are we if not the purveyors of justice
my rifle, my knife, these limbs.
Who are they if not the intruders of peace;
their terror, our lives, death looms.
I am hollowed: rebuilt and refilled.
My scarred face remembers what
I need not. Their faces and fear lie killed;
****** with mandate, bullet hole signature.

       The trigger finger -
                            is not mine, it’s yours.

You **** guerrilla forces, burn
villages and conquer; linger and pause.
Teach them what you had us learn,
cut them from their cage,
and coax them to our ways.
They, purveyors of peace;
you, intruder, enforcing justice.
The hallways seem strangely silent
a wistful sense of emptiness fills every room
rammed full to the brim
with nothing but previous occurrences
and quiet, clean air.

Curtains grow duller with every second,
the falling sun creeps carefully
behind grass and trees, beds and walls.
A “climate control” unit hums
met only by murmuring voices next door.

I irritate a light switch, flicking it
on, off, on, off, on… off.
There is nothing of interest in this room.

I turn inward, sticking my thumbs
into my ears and hands over my eyes.
At long last, serenity.
Stiff-spined pigs clawing at shins,
thighs, torso; arms and head.
Effervescent atoms spit
from pressurised cans
to clouded, burning eyes.
Batons drop, judging
my ever rolling sins;
breaking bland sheet
of skin into blue, black,
red, swelling  purple canvas:
mounds of flesh,
batted time and time again.
Arm twisted, mud faced being, sinking.
Face first dirt. Cuffed, bony wrists
annoy broken-back shoulders:
unforeseen angles.
Frustrated muscles stretch
bemused tendons.
Freedom demolished,
kicking screams provoke
further chest knocks,
ambushed four to one
your body flops;
sagging over tight-gripped,
blue and black jackets,
helmets, batons, badges.
Tossed to the backseat;
prisoner of the siren.
Short struggle to the floor, I sigh,
your wrenched fingers clamped
tightly around my pointed wrists
Your convex caps join thigh to shin
pressing mine through scorched earth
slowing seconds grab my breath
pushing further out, and drawing ever in.

Spasmodic jolts, kicks and flinches;
failed punches, rattled writhing, wriggling
under your smirking calm, this is
second nature. Third wind I strike again
with snake like prowess, your dead weight flipped
but inches. Obey or suffer, your knee rolls,
to my chest; laser precision, your other uncoils
on the blackened dirt, ash and soil.

Flat footed battering ram to my ribs
then throat, ever slower, ever heavier.
The pain goes, the knife enters:
over and over and under flesh
ripping, torn skin.

I pity not the wondering victim who trips
on my carcass. Face first, horrified glance
towards the sign that reads:
Beware trespassers, out here
nobody hears your screams.
Fix me with subterfuge;
one-hundred feigned smiles
crash, condense and disperse,
all because you shot me
that polar glare.

Trick me with posed gesture
and we backtrack, for miles.
Your stare ignites, melts and
drools off of your frozen eyes.

Wet blue tracks
through Salt Lake City;
these roads need gritting,
these walls must melt.
Nature's patient,
wistful sleepers
dampen the fall
amidst sets of peepers.

Ever ancient,
ticking tempers
stir against time
to make things mine.

Nature's patient: I await,
mothers cure for all i hate.
Cats eyes line the meanders, drifting off right, wondering left.
Clutching fog lamps, casting back a luminous dot to dot;
morse code decorated trenches: cracks in the trails ahead.

White noise peters in as waves crack the shore,
salt water droplets - tortoise and hare; that game

you played as a kid willing the underdog to win.

The dogs on his back in the backseat, legs in the air.

Underneath him the blanket you wore the first time

we jumped from the pier to the sea, a pair of young fools

romantically free, not strung to the walls of marital tension,

mortgage loans, pensions pressing the wind out your lungs

and life out your heart; the bond we shared has drifted apart.

Crash on the land, the pounding waves;
gush of the tides shivers down your braids.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on yours


you take it away as we brush past the moors.
Rumble over rubble, our suspension knocks
wooden slats creek as we speed past the docks.

Turn to me teary eyed nostalgia, I swerve between the bench
and the toll booth, two dodgy dogs notice running and flailing,

as the last fence approaches. The tiniest movement, a twitch

of the wrist could take a toll on our carriage of bliss.

The carnage we left, lit from the west
your glistening pupils and rain soaked vest

tinted gold from the sunlight and pink



from the sky. The clouds above part as prepared,
those adulterous pedigrees, tore our peace treaty
your cuffed hand reaches over muffled screeches

that beloved mut in-the-back, most bedraggled
of creatures howls as you pull the hand break
twist the wheel our tires carve etches.

At the end of the structure, we howl with the dog,
and the tyre with all the punctualness rendered

functionless with two deep punctures
hisses and sinks with much of a muchness.
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