5217. I SADDLED YOUR ARMS

I SADDLED YOUR ARMS

The command said 'go'; said 'go and kill,

feel free'. The whispered said 'just try and 

come back to me.' War and death join together, 

somehow; they run down the arm like rich and

purple plum-juice dripping on a hot, sultry Summer 

day. Pain in the pleasure. Hurts so good. All that

comes from Death is more of what it brings  -  

and still they carry out newer rifles and guns,

never stopping even to hear the tales of the

last. The big General, the Buffoon, with ribbons

and medals and proclamations, he's over there,

leaning on a car  -  a faded gray army car  -

handling his big cigar like some artillery magnate's

daughter's fondest wish. It's all for nothing now,

and goes away. The little green Jeep, cuts in,

from the left, arriving fast; I hear the sounds, a

pow, pow, and the General's gone down.