Marathon

Twenty-six bullets and the Marathon's
run rampant and rancid,
a soured delicacy of despoiled human
glory for the sentience of outsiders
to sample;
gory champagne.
Dunrandal's dismayed, persuaded away,
and I am gunslinger-champion. Chaplain of
Christ-in-chamber; pistol salvation, holy handgun.

Just a unimpressive poem in an attempt to get myself back into updating this. It's written about Bungie's Marathon game, reflecting on the fact that I always find myself having to fall back on the handgun. I tried to make it as minimalist (I guess it could be called) as possible, but really didn't execute that effectively. Word choice and diction are alright, I guess, but probably on the bland side. It is an update, though.

Screw artistry and its opinions.

There are too many people in the world.

A baseball star hits home runs and breaks records,
then breaks his bat.
He tips his hat and the grand game ends in a tie,
puts on his suit after a shower,
shows the crowds his smile,
then is whisked away into a limo.

The vanguard follows.

They take him to the new Titanic,
and he sits back
and welcomes the chill of the icebergs as the boat leaves the pier.

Into a microphone, he whispers a greater good, for all to hear:
"Look at what I've left behind."

The bar is thronged by people and thrown astray
as they press to hear the press
introduce the sacraments of a newborn Jesus (in a baseball cap)
on television.

Lucifer takes a table with some angels, and before they close the doors,
God damns everything and joins them for fellowship and fries.

I pick up a knocked-over ashtray and muse over the entrails of a cigarette.

A simple doomsday scenario.

Pt.I
At a fancy restaurant
People eat
Shitting heartache under the table

I’d rather wait in the hay
Watching the goats grow,
The Devil go by and
The soft sentimental ponies dying

I’d rather
The moon drink up all the shine.

The first part of a multi-part deal.

Home, home on the range

We bring cerebral landmines and exploding minds.
We are pleased to aim, though no accuracy is required.
Shake the sad sniper's hand,
the forlorn fellow with a pointless collection of bones,
who sits on an inornate throne of bush and camouflage.
"My sight is broken."
His sight is broken, and he doesn't have the range.
"I don't have the range to hit them before they hit the fallow fields,
the workers."
They look so downcast as they harvest the shrapnel patch,
and one bends over to pick up his hand to pick more fruit of the turmoil-- which tills and churns the soil-- and his torso falls off.
He looks up and laughs with a mouthful of dirt, discombobulated.
"No, no. This isn't home at all."
The dysfunctional overlord drives them on with nary a shot
or vodka.
The artist crumples up the paper, but it doesn't have the range
to reach the trashcan--
"No good. Maybe next season."
-- and the worker can't help but feel incomplete.

It's crap. I know.