a single human with all your store of morals,
destroying with white phosphorous in mind,
the bogus wants of peace and settlement.
Your delight at death shows minds decaying,
corpses that flake and sink in acid,
bleached to less than bones of decency,
the last of truces washed away in blood.
You are rank, immobile, trained yet impotent,
with the patient fingers of your sergeant
at your hands, at the trigger, buttoning
the running men, the weaselled terrorists
who do not, cannot, play by rules of war,
and hide amongst the sparsity of hate
you plan with your own spitting malice.
Through you, the fire of youth is armed.
Your threads are buzzing now, with trash,
the effluent of war-obsessive adolescents,
now seen screaming as the clustered volleys
bounce off kids and leave you still and numb.
We'll drag you through the maths of risk,
the probability defined in disproportion.
Here are the odds: there is no God
to create the million enemies you spawn.
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