Blind mercury besets the fallow fields Running in blood othertime running in blood France Is dead with the coiled viper of thought Nothing here grows but thistles, nothing feeds but salt Rubbed into the corners of eyes and the diagonal edges Of organs poisoned by their own black misery Smoldering chemical fields slow burning as a mind Uncertain which turn to take, what ideology to embrace Capsize imagination for the pigs With guns and wings will always slowly erase Every thought but an acquiescence To the execution of human freedom "Your back is up against the wall" I donet mind I will fight I am a man Married my heart transversed with garlic stakes Another top dead from it Two more nails feet to the floor bleeding from the eyes Holding out gentle hands begging and pleading for life But the short, sharp breath fades in the morning air As if to say even the sensual glamour of despair Will not avail you now Oh what do I care for your pettiness What do I care for your garbage-can fires In typical swineishness you have reduced our ground war to this? You think this is what we intend for our resistance? This Hapless and backstabbing all the more refreshed Because you have nothing We will pay you back much bigger than this My face is rubbed with scars But I will be free
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:29 PST