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Bread and circuses

Eleventh hour has passed again:
Wrinkle capped Men wreathed,
Widowed, psychopath onlookers grieve
Under a common grey sky, have

Fallen beneath the wheels of the cart again,
The grinding machinations grate
At furies far flung
And little understood by those too civilized

For wars that come undone:
Dare we criticize now, in the time
Of glowering, decorated men
That guard the blood tradition?

Who are we to question how the millions
Are spurned and the billions are spent
Or even, the manner in which they burn?
Eleventh hour falls through the cracks of

Honour bound time, while most toil on
And disregard, not out of callous neglect,
Or lacking respect,
But more banal, are just barred, by those

Grey suited congenital generals, who have them
Unquestioning, by the balls,
Up to the clock punch
Of death and beyond, if it would profit

Less will remember, in a language of forgetting
When wars are thick and fast, hard to pick, which fight
We’re on now
Do us a favour, lest we forget, let us catch

Up to the killing not yet done
Any tick of the clock and,
The war will be won,
And the staggering speechless,
Breathe once more and move on.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
Trying to break out of a few conceptions of form, I penned this recently- strictness and susceptibility are both in here, it's a raw thought experiment and a general response to my own reserved and sometimes constrained verse, and a response to the many things that surround us that are far from morally sound - yet seem to go on unnoticed, and without a sound - out of view in the 24 hour news cycle. Please feel free to weigh in and contribute.
Editing stage: 


Sometimes content overides form, and this is one such case. Things we should be asking about we don't, keep your heads down and we'll give you a wage. The same type of person still in charge and we follow blindly, nice poem, super content. Regards Roscoe...

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

Not completely devoid of form, buried in there a little even subconsciously if you've done it out of habit long enough, I suppose. Will continue to try prodding the mould/world with a sharp stick! I think poetry is a great forum for focused political thought, and needn't be confined. I've started having a look through some of your work and will try to find some time to add some comments after the present Saturnalian festival of plastic holiday season has passed! Thanks for taking a look.


Chris Hall - Tasmania

Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.

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