As a father of ticking clocks i think i own their paternity
 they sprout from me they leave my skin in little pourous round clouds
   fortell the time into infinity, the neccesity to know where i am in the terms of future/past/present

I listen
to the rants of angry vein poppers,
these shallow beasts, reach for the ecstatic chemical release
  I watch the slow death as they  morph into some other man/woman,
      stupid angry versions blow through a clean shaven crowd leave destructive wakes

Slight cuts and red dropped smoothness
the water slowly flows over
marked uniformity, The march of
boots lined in straightened rows
with glossy wax licks
the eyes, lustrous greenery
splayed on the backs of
youthful integrity
 
my brothers in arms and we march in unison, our feet stamp down give me a rhythm for destruction
   a rhythm to reap my jealousy on i can feel the randy pulse of youthful military spirit a thirst for spoil and plunder
         random we roam to the beat of drums from on hi a voice of direction into the blind dark we march consume rhetoric and spew forth

my parents are so proud

10/02/2001

Author's Note: re-written on 1 may 2007. I wrote this in basic training. Kinda wierd to return to that mindset.

Posted on 10/02/2001
Copyright © 2026 Travis G Finborg