Category: Poetry

The Vampires Suck

Vampire suck as the armies’ ruck,
And the beast goes on its way,
Invades and raids each nation’s wealth,
For the blood is the vampire’s pay.

Media drones with hearts like stones,
Launder their nation’s crimes,
While their hoodwinked poor,
At the pauper’s door,
Must suffer such trying times.


Today I killed my brother,
Or was it other time?
For clock hands move no longer,
When the death is not of thine.
Had be been another’s boy,
Would it not matter much,
For if I kill your brother,
It doesn’t seem as such,

To take a life but brother’s death,
Is like you take your own,
It is a Civil War they said,
When hearts are made of stone.

Where there is no Peace there is Poetry

During war and peace, one supposes every conflict creates the perfect mental environment for releasing one’s thoughts in poetry. As is pointed out endless times on the People’s Media (social media) the current war against the rapidly advancing hideous totalitarianism is war by other means.


I make no apologies for spurning the pomp and pageantry that bull-horns Remembrance Sunday. There is much about the war that knows no political or national boundaries; war is a monument to human frailty, not strength. 


Remembrance Day was originally intended to remind us of the futility of war. The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month marked the time the Armistice was signed at the end of WWI, or, as it was known at the time, The Great War, the war to end all wars.