And Still I cannot Wake From Their War (Part 2)

the papers don't read me right
the priests keep burying people
the doctors are choosing who dies
the tv is selling me reality tv

outside the Art House the homeless reside
inside the Art House the less homeless buy
latex coffee and herbal beers from Belgium

the film is motion less meaning plus treason
the music vibe breaks and beats on my lips
the books uncover back into illiterate tree bark
the pop art post cards dreaming of iconoclasts

along a time lined up against the great wall of death
beside it's selfish firing squad a nation drinks to suicide
a damp coursing blood bath robed in Texan oil skins

the auto-more bile-machine pumping out the insane
the frozen tons of dead boy friends piled hanger high
the coffin squads gagged & blind folded by Yankee flags
the striped union breakers illuminated by tortured stars

how far into skin can a Camel burn says the slow gun
as the damned bless us with the curse of holy holy life
and the baby blue eyes of Arkansas cry me a cold tear

and still I cannot wake from their war.



John G.Hall(C)2005