What Can It Be That Draws Me Back To Here?

what can it be that draws me back to here?

the ailing pork of reindeer eyes still sleeps inside my mood

as countless jaws around my fire of early morning greed

bound over by - and silenced by -  our laws of elbow seed;

why is it so that all aboard this field of friendly wire

we drag our bayonets inside our trench coats as we tire?

is it all about the prune juice as it reigns above our crawl?

perhaps we are the cotton reel who now sleeps beneath a shawl;

our mourning for the headless shrimp who died upon the hook

our tailored shirts still soaked with blood we thought his brother took

but here we are again above the rise and fall from grace

dressed as porcupines as we pillage from beneath our fathers face;

like cattle being slaughtered with a poisoned caviar

what can it be that draws me back to here?

the weaving cutlass dancing through the veins of sugared plums?

or the beating of the fox tail as it beats upon our ever scrambled tongues;

kill or be killed! eat or heave between the breasts of mothers earth

plough through her shield of mangled mandarin for apples worth

a ton of silver stardust worth far more than any prayer would dare concede

bring drink, good cheer and roses with a thousand kisses for our frozen chicken feed;