Condition Red

Giving the words a breath of air

Slaying the old ones without a care,

Assuming always they were never there,

A gut feeling is an empty despair

The fringes of thinking become a lair

But the bright clouds shit their bombs everywhere.

Leaving the blank screens, their video games

Striking a similarity with the lame brains

Smiling atrocities is the latest of names

The sickly punctuated multi-coloured displays

Show that wars aren’t about death or laser rays

But the sky pisses napalm missiles every day.

Living the life of a mole in Baghdad

Is nothing if not ever so sad

The writing moguls feeding what is mad

Living is living is making a killing

Trying to pierce walls that are unyielding

But the vomiting fires go on in every way.