Mom

by Aidan Andrew Dun

mom4

 

Hundred-percent
flags still visible
through doomsday
smoke they come:
super-heroes
from failed states
mass-produced
in broken homes
barely-pubescent
men-of-blood;


Mostly adolescent
overgrown babies
with assault-rifles
knee-jerk-patriots
child-crusaders
among them:
these angry-naive
martyrs-to-be
steeled nineteen-
year-olds advancing:


To imminent
terrifying ends
all driven hard
made to push-on
by puppet-masters
of battlezones
sexagenarian generals:
these virgin soldiers
condemned to
petroleum infernos.

Behind just
Alpha’s bare wall:
‘Don’t return
less than heroes!
At dawn we
shoot cowards
blindfolded
hooding the sun
so he can never
rise again.’


Ahead only
the insuperable
desert where
armoured columns
inch in red sand
where fire-trenches
raise black plumes
by burning lakes
where prayers of
the annihilated die:

With a last word
only one name
uttered again
and again
in the end
with the ultimate
breath of life:
always
the same.



trench dead

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