Performance Poetry

How-many-solders-must-die-in-Afghanistan-before-the-war-endsa clone of a man
In his dull uniform
blending in as one with his surroundings
watching everything
hearing everything
he pulls the trigger
and reloads.


and over
again and again
the only reaction is a force
both equal and opposite released on his arm

those shots
so magical for scientists
and so deadly for those

None of whom matter,
They’re all the enemy.
And so, those bodies form a sediment on the foreign lands.
And flowing over them,
From what used to be a sustenance of life,
Filled with oxygen,

And finally, he stops.
Instead he looks at the results
counting each of the voodoo dolls
all pinned with red
It’s just a job.

Ah, a flicker of movement,
A young boy
no more than 18,
cradling whats left of him
As he calls out in alien tongue
رحمة رحمة

His eyes,
Plead for life
and death
theyre all the same now.
Life holds no family
no gain
no future
only pain

and death…
an unknown,
perhaps an abyss,
or maybe the long sought for paradise


No choice

sloppy but still a victory
he walks away
Forwards, always moving
he locks onto his targets
two girls this time

His brain
his system
configured by years of hammering orders, regulation and rules
an error for the first time
he looks away.


He’s down

Another river of death flowing from him
an emotional error
it killed him in the end

No longer a clone,
no longer a robot
just a victim of his own emotions.
His life gone
his past continues
still holding power
still living on.

Heroes and named by their country
handing them badges and printing their names everywhere
gods, saviors,
guardian angels to all.

Terrirosts the enemy country calls them
inhumane, barbaric
And him, him that clone of a man,
a murderer of innocents
and murdered by innocence himself.


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