By Stephen L. Fox
Sign here.
Say these words.
No, don’t ask.
Yes, you’re sure.
Here’s your rifle –
hold it tight.
For your nation,
proudly fight.
Good job, son.
One more thing.
Then it’s done –
the bell can ring.
Will he feast?
A risky bet.
But at least,
my quotas met.
Don’t lay there.
Get up, son.
You lazy fool –
it’s five o’one!
One big breath,
close your eyes.
Don’t dwell upon,
swatting flies.
Yeah, there’s a cost.
Unfortunate.
We wish there were,
some alternate.
Screaming brothers;
one by one.
Pride of fathers;
gore-drenched sons.
What you do now,
keeps US safe.
From the tyrants,
worlds away.
A huge success,
you’ve made us proud.
Putrid others;
under ground.
Victory!
By skills?
By kits?
By hearts?
By merits?
By rights?
By wits?
By mourning mothers’ empty teats.
Speaking of…
look at them.
She’s not too bad,
for my next whim.
Come on, boy,
don’t worry none.
I’ll treat her nice –
‘til I’m done.
But wait a second –
what’s that stench?
Aroma of
your rotting flesh?
Kills the mood –
makes me retch.
We cannot stall,
the industry.
The complex hums,
but flesh is key.
How’s the budget?
Can we proceed?
Lockheed Martin
needs to eat.
How much do these
dead boys cost?
It won’t be easy,
gaining loss.
The dollars spent,
to change this wheel,
more money lent –
a leaner till.
Thank god –
thank God,
I have a friend.
Old enemy,
today will lend.
To Uncle Sam,
from Uncle Mao,
aren’t you sad,
this is how,
you pay your debt?
Cheap medals prick.
Your dead chest,
not worth a lick.
How many bodies,
did your wage buy?
Oh – nevermind,
I’m wasting time.
Shit – I’m late.
Is this on straight?
Those rich old fucks,
cannot wait.
Time to honor
this slab of meat.
Was this “Connor?”
We’d never met.
“I knew him well, he served us true!
His mother cried and I did too!
No other boy will ever be,
half as brave – a fourth as sweet!
What a hero.
What a quest.
See that medal upon his breast?
Every mother should hope to see,
A son who died for you and me.”
This conflict’s gone too many rounds.
Quagmire festers on the ground.
They hate our freeness,
Can’t you see?
When we sang.
When freedom rang.
When liberating soldiers came.
They yelled their chants.
They burned our flags.
They taught their infants,
to bear their fangs.
This shithole country –
these hateful brutes.
“Move your ass;
no need for boots.”
They hate our love –
that’s okay.
We’ll meet them where,
our interests lay.
Fewer words,
no more play.
End their hatred:
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
It costs so much,
to clearly show,
the lower class –
too poor to know.
How rich they are – but that’s okay.
Their flesh spends, just the same.
And their stench? Burns right away.
About this poem:
While the story focuses on war, and the lies we tell and are told, the entire narrative of blame permeating modern politics inspired “The Stench.”
I have significant distaste for today’s US political environment. Loud. Angry. Declarative. Uncurious. So much of what is said is built upon hubris. It’s likely my disdain is also rooted in regret. I’ve been on the screaming side so many times. I was raised to see aggression as a symptom of courage – not the indicator of foolishness it is.
The human world is being spun by money. The pursuit of it eclipses its very purpose – to exchange with others. Instead, it has become the crumb we all scramble for. None of us can ever have our fill – by oppression or by oppressing; The trap is the same.
The less you have, the less they have for you. It’s a painful trap destroying the world.