Bad trip
by Brad Horton

Like the drugs of our older brothers
hit of war
Iraq strain
Bad trips told like conquests, false empowerment of emotions
orgasms while being raped
and guilt

wanting contact and to use CLS and our rifles to validate our trip
we take it again, knowing we'll fry ourselves
but we're already too far gone and need to take ourselves to the edge
wake up!
fuck off
wake up man!
fuck off its my off day!
nah man, we might roll
Delta section got hit
3 bestfriends total, driver, gunner, gunner
7 in all, 1 of 2 favorite SSGs
it was my old truck
oh fuck
Kemmer throws kevlar
ohh fuck
Platoon sergeant, the wind, the ghost, takes charge for once
calls us together
we took casualties
3 KIA, 1 WIA

grown men pounding fists into concrete
chaplain comes by
with his fucking spanish accent that makes prayer sound like tongues
Doc died en route to bird..4 dead now
motherfuckers who never leave the wire walk by gawking
at the Scouts
battalion's badasses mourning their dead
whom they will soon eat
on blotter paper and in droplets

we'll have flashbacks and see our own
over and over and over
got hit in Iraq on a hit of war
Iraq war
dropped by youths
propagated by the government shadows like the drug it is
and we are all addicted
and we are all afflicted

Copyright © 2009 - Brad Horton
Published: 4/30/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem