Strange bullets,
Blind and snarling,
Bull this way
Like rays of a dying sun.
Frontline swears,
Heralds of spilt intestines
And hands quivering quiet in misty ditches
Echo through an emerald hell.
“Trail!” they yell,
“Trail, as we are perished!”
The turtles march, and march for rubble
While gleaming Zippos give them cheer.
They are not whole,
These “individuals,”
For how can the many stand out
In slogan
Or passion?
Jungle sounds send minds concerning
Before gasps dance with the smoking meat.
Pining for the morning,
A rebirth, an ENDING:
Soothing conceptuals that do nothing
But inflate scraped hearts
For strange bullets to pop.

------- Author's Notes -------

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