by Peter Branson
swollen and black, old stations of the cross
icon, this breakfast, tabloid snap, hot wired
to keepy-up machine, Iraq. But why
are you surprised? The recipe: take youth,
feral in-house, ill-disciplined at school,
beyond control. Beat with incessant drill.
For blind obedience, add little treats,
like Pavlov's dogs. Toss in the weaponry,
sheer thrill of combat, fear of letting down
your mates, kill or be killed, and losing face;
an occupying force, first of the few;
young men, hair-triggers, power of life and death
their will. So what do you suppose they do?
~
Copyright © 2012 - Peter Branson
Published: 3/15/12 · Author's Page · Next Poem