War

We fight with
thought grenades
pheromone bullets
and word shrapnel
raiding each others minds
for mythological
weapons of mass
destruction.

Stalemated,
refusing to
free our death grip on
power, our
P-O-W-ed genitals starve.

Will there be a cease
fire, a neo-marxist
fashion statement,
a cutting of the prized
pants in two,
reducing them to
bloody denim gauze?

No, I’ll surrender,
Sparing these
designer jeans
again
and remain
a prisoner
of your excuses.

And again
you’ll go
pre-O, blowing
your load
like a champ,
owning the spoils,
the booty and my
freedom…

but I’m planning
my escape.

c.e.s.
3.26.09