In Darker Moments With my Pen As A Sword

In darker moments, with my pen as a sword.

on May 13, 2005. ©-MFB III- All rights reserved


In some of my darkest moments,

when rage at the world

overwhelms my sensibilities,

I can almost feel the urge

to answer the call, and let

my pen truly become a sword.



Sneaking out in the wee hours,

when most of the world dreams,

with all the training afforded me,

by the U.S. Marines,

I would spirit myself

into the quarters,

of some of the world's

most evil of men,

and drive my pen

with furious righteousness

into their left eyes,

only after I had deftly

deflated their right,

leaving them as truly blind,

to the needs of mankind,

as they were when

they were sighted.

Then I would sign

their finely groomed foreheads

in blood with two words:

"Serial Quill-er!"



Oh, how the media would expound

upon the mad poet,

set loose on societies

upper echelons, tragically executed

by a simple writing implement.

They'd rant

or wonder at the ambush

of the dead who knowingly

trampled the rights

of the common man,

or made grave mistakes

that cost many lives,

for the glory of cash

and power, and greed.

Each one's eye sockets would become

my inkwell, and their souls

my postscript to a perfect world.



Alas, the military bled all

of the desires to kill from me,

long ago in the last useless war fought,

and they don't make pens

long enough to reach,

the tiny brains of most

of the leaders of world affairs

and molders of tragedies.



So I content myself

with a handful of

finely crafted pens,

that are delicately

feathered on one end,

and sharpened to surgical

precision on the other.

Then weekly I post the faces,

of the worlds most worthless maggots,

on a large dartboard in my studio,

and spend a few delightful minutes a day, aiming for their eyes.

and pen-atrating their pixeled flesh

Sort of voodoo for the soul

one might say,

It's not a solution

but it calms the rage a bit.



I also post a lot of what I consider

my worst poems on that bored too

and I puncture-ate them as well

poking holes in theories

that were created without merit,

thereby satisfying the blood lust

against what's wicked on this planet.



I am currently working though

on a catapult for typewriters

and word processors,

those useless hulks of metal,

that are now relics,

in this computer age.

They would do quite nicely

as ammo for assaults on

all of the ignorant heads,

of the states of madness,

perpetuated against us.

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