Beau Travail

“You put too much faith in appearances.” SERVE THE GOOD CAUSE            THEN DIE sedimentary sequence. silent death. flailing trumpets. control and conformity. shackles of war. eternal restraint of emotion and ego. the study of bodies. flex your rusty muscles. men without mothers; sculpted and molded by orders. a nation burning to a crisp in an excruciatingly slow interval. details of race and identity ignored to turn us into masked ghosts indistinguishable from one another. the labyrinth’s walls cast shadows upon our exhausted faces; which doing so ironically makes light of our conscious self-hatred that manifests in the abundance of ritualistic routine every day. your face contorts into an expression similar to a [___]. just another cog in the machine; letting the days     tick      tick           tick               tick until the time comes to reconcile with the jealousy that has characterized all the past couple years. who knows when we’ll be blessed with the twilight and gorgeous sights of better days; when we’ll free from this regression. sterile waves tie us down into machines of pure flesh and steel; movements dictated to us by chiefs of repressed insecurity. everyone here doesn’t want to show it; but we’re all sad. this profound, stomach-level sadness is visible in the sand, the exercises, the motions. it’s evident all around us but we don’t notice even after it ruins lives; it’s plucked so far inside our roots that it’s impossible to pick out. all of this routine and routine, leading up to what? what exactly are we training for? we’re crushed into this tight fitted box where there’s no room for spreading our wings or for trails of tears. our terrible deeds will be forgotten in the history books; rewritten and blotched up to convince everyone there was never anything there, but deep down we’ll remember. there was always something before this. something before the longing, the fucking aching longing. we’re eroded creatures of deep envy; watching better variations of us succeed with eyes of deep vigilance. baptized by dust. united by unchecked power. carefully coordinated by scaling fingers. unfit for civil life. rebirth by rhythm. the seas hollow out and reveal the skulls of poor colonized souls. the fields of stone look unrecognizable while on your last train home. the freedom dance of liberation is anything but an easy two step. it takes a insurmountable level of bravery and effort to shake off the dust strung over your chest. you keep your gun under your pillow and slide it across your body just in case. just in case… how to stop a cycle?how to stop a cycle?how to stop a cycle? now commences the Liberty Shuffle — what escape from this colonialist prison is there but to dance // die? But the bullets                              Know no All Around me                                 Laws