Too much time to think (the terrors of your terror)


Too much time to think
too much time to reflect,
That is the accusation levelled.

Much better
is the reflex action,
To act before the thought

Much better
the trigger finger,
no weighing up of options.

Survive or die
and fuck the why,
“Yeah, Fuck the why”,

Staring at the faces of people
determining their origins,
just shoot and give them peace.

Whilst you’re thinking
their bullet flies,
So kill your compassion and kill the wise.

Survive to see the errors,
The Terrors
of your terror

Heritage is for other generations
not for our deadened hearts,
Hang your battered shields on victories wall.

Stone stairways of cities
are built on civilisations strata,
Cascading flood waters will drown the poor.

The Dome on the Rock
is built on a shit pile of lies
and no-one knows what it’s really for.

The monied man turns his nose away,
from the guts spilling on his streets,
his shit smells so much sweeter,

his shit comes from purer things,
Vegan menus
not Chicken Wings.

Poor men still eat meat
and use fossil fuel,
They watch soap but never use it.

Their opium
is spoon fed and free,
and War Lords watch Netflix on TV

The War Lords are heroes
in series 1, 2, and 3
their victims applaud on bended knee.

The roaches are drowning
in pools of vegan piss,
yet do we ask who paid for this?

The credits roll
the WiFi kicks in,
the proles are reconnected

they leave the theatres
and head to the bars,
to drink their fill.

You’ve too much time to think,
was the accusation levelled..
and now the muzzle warms the mouth

Lennon and the NRA?
just pull the trigger to save the day.
Go on do it, blow the fucking world away

© Wolfgar 2020

After the storm


Through prisms of Moroccan glass
rainbow colours shed,
white walls are brushed with pastels
the storm has passed, has bled.

The shutters still are shuttered,
the gutters blackened full,
the forecast lies un-uttered
the lunar tide still pulls.

The silence falling soft now
a breeze whispers to the calm,
the count is for the cost now
yet un-accounted goes the harm.

© Wolfgar 2020